The Life That Never Was
by kkolmakov
Summary: AU to the rest of the stories of Thorin Oakenshield and Wren, a healer from Dale. When faced with the potentiality of a life with another man, a former ranger of Ithilien, Wren abandons her hope for Thorin's love and chooses to become the ranger's beloved. What will life bring her instead of her future in Erebor? *No Infringement Intended* AU after Chapter 9 of "Thorin's Defeat"
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Another reminder that story is an AU from all the rest. It picks up after chapter 9 of "Thorin's Defeat" and take an absolutely different turn and ****reboots Wren's reality when hurt and devastated by Thorin's neglect our red haired healer leaves the King after four years in Erebor, before the betrothal, before children, and meets Amrod on the road. Faced with her visions of the possible future with the Gondorian, Wren makes one choice differently and changes her destiny. Or does she?**

You leave your skirt on, throw a shawl over your shoulders, hiding the straps of the undertunic, and barefoot you quietly walk into the corridor and gently knock at his door. There is silence behind it, and you carefully turn the handle. You enter and lock the door behind you. The room is dark, and you see his form on the bed, the white of the bandages gleaming in the moonlight.

You make a few tentative steps towards him, and you can hear his breathing change. Your eyes are now accustomed to the dimness of the room, and you see his face. The eyes are open, features relaxed, there is a soft smile on his lips. You come closer and stop in front of his bed. He stretches his hand towards you, and you place your fingers in his.

His thumb slips on the center of your palm in a familiar caress, and you cross the last gap between you two. You press one knee into the sheets, and you understand that is your last chance to leave. You pull the shawl off your shoulder with another hand, and his eyes fall on the gauzy bodice of the undertunic.

You take your hand out of his and unbutton your skirt at the back. You push it down and step out of the circle of fabric on the floor. He is still not moving, his hand half-raised in the air where you left it, and you take it, gently pulling him to sit up. At the same time you sit down and tuck your feet under yourself. The floor is cold.

His long narrow hand lies on the side of your face, and you press your cheek into his palm, closing your eyes. "Alfirin…" The voice is soft and low. You open your eyes and smile to him.

"You said I should come when I am certain I will not regret it in the morning…" His eyes are studying your face. You cup his face with your hand, mirroring his gesture. "I will not..."

His lips finally touch yours, your breaths mix, warm and fresh, his lips soft and loving. Your other hand lies on his ribs, and you are mesmerized by the smoothness of his skin. He is warm, but not scorching, friendly gentle warmth, and his hand slides into your hair, cups the back of your head, tilts it where he wants you, your lips, and then your throat, where he presses long hypnotic kisses.

His movements are controlled, experienced, but no less passionate. You push your hands into the chestnut curls, thick, silky, and suddenly grab handfuls of his strands. He tears his mouth from yours and places a small gentle kiss near your ear. "Gentle, Alfirin,we have nowhere to hurry to…"

You sigh and slide your palms on the wide shoulders, enjoying the skin and and the shiver that runs through him. "Allow me to undress you, Alfirin..." You look into his eyes, they are dark with lust but there is a smile dancing in them. You nod, and he pulls you to him. Somehow he manages to place you exactly where he needs you, without much coercing.

You are kneeling on the bed, your legs on the two sides of his lower half, a cover still between your bodies. His face is in front of your breasts, and he smirks. Then he picks up the hem of your undertunic and in a slow smooth movement he takes it off you. Your breasts are bare in front of him, and your hands twitch. You gulp and feel your cheeks burning, the pink undoubtedly spreading lower, flooding your whole body.

His large arms lie on your shoulder blades, and he tilts his head and places a kiss on your ribs. "Pity, it is night, I would like to see the blush surely blooming on your skin… Is your whole skin flushed right now, my flower?" You drop your head back, reveling in his slow sensual kisses on your skin. The lips slide between the breasts, and then his large palm on your back guides your upper body, and he is kissing your collar bones.

You are keeling, and when his tongue dives in the hollow between your clavicles, you cannot keep your body straight anymore. You are falling and press your hands in the headboard on the sides of his head. His lips are on the tops of your breasts and then a palm slides down your back and pushes your drawers off down. They fall and pool around your knees. You jerk, and then his long fingers runs between your buttocks, and he dips one finger inside you, curls it and pushes it deep into your wet entrance. You moan throatily and arch your back.

Everything is in the wrong order, that is not how you like it to proceed. But again, nothing is ever with Amrod. You shift your hips, and his finger slides out of you. You bite your lower lip and slowly putting your feet on the sheets you get up over him. You can see eyes widen and a strange small smile plays on his lips. He is shameless studying your wet curls and the curves of your inner thighs. You take off your undergarments and lower yourself on him again. The fabric of the cover rubs your sensitive folds.

You wrap your arms around his neck and press your lips to his. He embraces you in return, now he is mirroring your gestures. His mouth is experienced, his tongue caressing yours, making it dance, and you moan into his mouth.

"I would like to taste you, Alfirin," he is murmuring in your ear, and it is not a question. You push away from him and stare in his eyes. And then you move and lie on the bed on your back, your knees spread widely, and he climbs from under the covers. He is bare, and you take a deep breath and close your eyes.

You feel his lips on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, he is tasting the skin there in open mouthed kisses, and then you feel his breath on your folds. The tip of his nose touches your clit, and you jump up. "Have you ever been tasted here, Alfirin?" You shake your head, you have no voice.

He presses his open mouth to your sex, and then he pushes his tongue into you. You moan and open up more. He is tenderly sucking with his whole mouth, while his tongue is swirling around the entrance. You arch your back and grab handfuls of the sheets. Your feel his hands slide under yours, and your fingers intertwine. He tilts his head and the tongue swirls around your labiae in a wider circle. And them he sharply closes his lips over your clit and gives it a forceful suck. The pleasure coiling in your lower stomach explodes, and you arch in the last thrashing of rapture, your shoulder blades lifting in the air, low raspy moan bursting out of your open mouth.

You fall back into the sheets. You are breathing heavily, but to your own disbelief you are not entirely satisfied. He is lazily kissing on your thigh, just above the knees, and you push your hips down, towards his mouth. "Would you like some more, Alfirin?" You moan, astounded by your own lustfulness, and he chuckles.

He released one of your hands, and his long finger pushes inside you. "You might need a bit more this time, my flower," your walls clench around his digit, and he slowly licks across your clit. "You are so responsive, Alfirin, you must be starved..." You moan and push yourself on his finger. He curls it and the pulp of it is exploring your inner walls. He starts pumping it in and out, slowly at first, and then, adding the second one, he speeds up. You are clenching your walls, looking for more contact, and he whispers, "Do not force it, Alfirin. Just enjoy these movements, I will take care of you." You relax and feel the thumb of his other hand rub your clit. He is gentle, and then he is carefully pulling your skin, exposing the sensitive bud. You feel his mouth of it, his tongue presses to it, hot and firm, and he is twirling it in regular steady circles. At the same time he curls up his fingers, pressing at the very spot inside you and mimics the movement of his tongue. The double swirling erupts inside you in a wave of shocking climax. Your body is convulsing, and loud screams burst out of you. You are sobbing, his name on your lips, and he gently pulls out his fingers. And then his warm palm covers your folds, and you moan. Somehow it feels as if he locked the pleasure inside you, not letting it dissipate, and you stretch on the bed, pressing your thighs together, his palm between your legs.

He puts his head on your leg, his other hand tenderly stroking your hip, affectionate but not lustful, a perfect caress while you are still trembling after the violent release. You open your eyes and stare at the ceiling. "I could never return such favour," you are too sated to be upset about it. He kisses your hipbone and moves slightly higher. You look into his laughing eyes. "It is not a competition, Alfirin. Seeing you like this is the biggest pleasure," he picks up your hand and kisses your knuckles.

You give him a lookover and lift a sarcastic brow, "That is a complete and utter poppycock, honourable ranger. Obviously, you expect some pleasures for yourself." He laughs, open mouthed merriment, wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, the mop of coffee coloured curls bouncing. And then he catches your mouth and pulls you to himself. He seems less composed, less in control now. You embrace him, and he slides higher, aligning your bodies.

"I do want something for myself, Alfirin," the voice is smoky and fruity. "And what would it be, honourable sir?" "I would like you to start using my name instead of all these respectful monikers," he presses a tender kiss to your jaw. "But I did, just a few moment ago," you nip his ear, "I screamed it several times, to be precise." He chuckles into your neck.

You push him away and look him in the eyes. They are candid, honest, and with all possible clarity you recognize the emotion splashing in them "Make love to me, Amrod," he smiles and finds your lips. He rolls you over and presses you into sheets. You spread your legs, and one of his palms slides under your knee. You let him guide your leg around his waist, and then lift another one, crossing them on his buttocks, and he pushes into you.

He is not exceptionally thick, but long, his movements forceful, confident. He pushes higher, rolls his hips into you, and you understand there is more than enough. You moan and splay your palms on his back. He is supporting himself on his elbows, his forearms under your shoulders, your lips locked in sensual neverending caresses, and you two are moving together, you reciprocate, he lets you, again and again, in smooth rocking movements, you are merging and intertwining, and cross the border of pleasure together, united and joyful. His seed spills into you, and you are ready to accept it, in a warm bliss of your own release.

He is tenderly kissing your face, and then presses his forehead to yours. "I love you, Alfirin, forever." You open your eyes and meet his gaze. You are searching your mind, and then the answer comes. "Amrod, I…"


	2. Chapter 2

"Amrod, I… I love you too," you lift your face and gently kiss his lips. He smiles, little wrinkles running in the corners of his eyes. "No, you do not, Alfirin," your eyes widen, "But you will." He places a small kiss on the corner of your mouth, and then slides his lips on your jaw, and to your ear, "You will love me, Alfirin. Just not yet..." You bite your lip, not sure how to react to his words. He lifts his face, and his warm chestnut eyes meet yours.

"Have I mentioned I have prophetic dreams, my flower?" His eyes are laughing, and you cannot help but quip. "Have I mentioned I have them too, honourable ranger?" He narrows his eyes. You smirk. Somehow constantly antagonizing him seems to become the favourite habit of yours. Perhaps his perpetual self-assurance awakes rebellion in you. "Shall we compare them, Alfirin? And I have already asked you," he catches your lobe between his lips, "To call me by name."

He is drawing patterns on your neck with the tip of his tongue, obviously enjoying the beating of the pulse on your throat under his mouth. You take a shuddering breath. "Perhaps later," your voice is raspy, and you push at his shoulders. He allows you to roll him on his back, his palms fly to your breasts, and he rolls your teats between his index and middle fingers. The pressure is just right, and you drop your head back.

"Let your hair loose, Alfirin," his voice is soft, and it almost does not sounds like a command. You push your hands into your curls, pull out the comb, and the braids wrapped around your head fall on your shoulders. He picks up the strings holding their ends and pulls. You run your fingers through the hair, unbraiding them, copper strands scatter on your shoulders, cover your breasts. You have grown them for the King, they go down to your waist. You look down at him. His eyes are dark, and with smug pleasure you see his conceited composure slipping.

You shift your hips and take him in. His long fingered hands lie on your waist, and he gently strokes your skin up and down, to your ribs and down to the hips, thumbs drawing circles on your hipbones. The caresses are endlessly sensual, making your inner muscles clench, and you moan.

"We will have a small house, Alfirin… With an ash tree growing near it…" His voice is low and raspy, but even. Your eyes fly open, you have not noticed when you closed them, rocking your pelvis in an intoxicating slow rhythm. "The shadow of the tree falls on the porch, and swings for our children sway on the wind..." If he is trying to awe you with these revelations, he is to be cruelly disappointed. You tighten your grip of your walls around his member, press your palms into his chest and lower your face to his. You lock your eyes and whisper, "A boy and two girls, with your brown eyes and my mouths..." The mischievous smile falls from his lips, and his eyes widen. You press your mouth to his in a short heated kiss. You nip his bottom lip and murmur, "You forgot my herbal garden…"

He pushes you on the bed in a fluid swift movement, with astonishing precision staying inside you, and thrusts into you forcefully. You laugh throatily, and his jaws clench. He lifts his torso over you on his straight arms, eyes narrowed, lips pressed in a stern line. You wrap your legs around his narrow hips and cock a brow. He shakes his head and answers with an impish smirk.

In his hands you feel like a musical instrument. His long fingers, skilful warm lips, deft tongue, he is playing all your strings, seemingly exploring the range of moans and cries he can elicit out of you, his kisses and thrusts a harmonious melody. You climax, arching your back and screaming his name. That is the first word you have said after confessing your visions. He is silent, rocking his hips into you, amplifying your rapture, his lips on your shoulder, mouth tasting the salt on your skin. When your body sags in his arms, he starts anew, not reaching for his own pleasure, but determined to bring you over the edge again. You arrive to your releases together, you with his name on your lips again, he with a hardly audible moan.

He drops on his elbows, still in control enough not to collapse on your body, his forehead pressed into your shoulder, and then you feel his lips moving on your skin, seemingly whispering something. You hum questioningly, you have no strength for words. He shakes his head. And then he lifts his head and looks into your eyes. There is no smile in them.

"Why are you here, Alfirin?" You momentarily remember asking him the same question. "Because I choose to," you repeat his answer and smile to him. "And your King?" You were ready for the question, but the corners of your lips drop, and you take a deep breath in. "He does not need me. And you do. And our children will." He is studying your face.

You stroke his upper arms and cup his face. "I had no future in Erebor, I choose to build one with you. Just as you said, nothing but the road ahead, sky above our heads..." A hint of smile touches his lips. "What else was there, Amrod?" You envelops your lips around his name tenderly, "Ah, right, new bed every night. Or no bed for that matter." He chuckles. "Perhaps, that should be amended, Alfirin. I vote for a presence of a bed now," he catches your mouth, "I would hate to mark your splendid skin on pine cones or a tree trunk." You bite his lip in retaliation. "Who said I would allow you to?" He deepens the kiss, his lips and tongue caressing yours with increasing passion, and you feel arousal awake again. You arch your back and moan into his mouth. He tears his lips from yours and smirks, "You should work on your rejection skills, Alfirin. So far you are not very convincing." You punch his shoulder, and he laughs. He is so beautiful, irises hidden behind long thick lashes, swollen lips, flushes cheekbones, and you wrap your arms around his neck. "I will work on them next time. Or the time after that."

You wake up the next morning in an empty bed. You sit up and look around. Your clothes are folded at the foot of the bed, and there is a small bunch of flowers on them. You pick them up and look at the pinnates of cuckooflower. They have slightly withered, and you evoke your magic to bring them back to life. In Erebor you would wear live flowers in your hair all throughout the day, their petals and fragrance reminding you of your beloved woods in the stone walls of the mountain.

The magic does not come. You are looking at the drooping violet flowers, and a cold foreboding clenches on your heart. You place the flowers on the bed and quickly get dressed.

You hurriedly move to your room to change into your usual travel clothes, but you cannot bring yourself to put on your attire. The velvet trousers and doublet of the Dwarven cut, the gauzy lacy undertunic that the King was so fond of, the tall boots bought in Dale, and the scabbard bearing Mudikh, the former sword of the King Under the Mountain… You are standing over your backpack in your undergarments, and your hands start shaking.

You stumble back, press your palms to your mouth, and a violent sob escapes your lips. You fall on your bed, press your face into your pillow to silence your cries, and allow your pain and heartbreak to flood you. Your heart is thrashing in ache, your love for the King tearing at your soul, memories of him making your body convulse in acute pain. You cry for half an hour, your hysterics slowly ebbing, and you fall into half sleep, half lethargy.

A knock at your door wakes you up. You jerk out of your doze and sit up. "Alfirin?" Amrod's voice makes your body jolt. "Come in," you do not sound well. He enters, a large bundle in his hands. You are attempting to smile to him, but your lips twist in a pained grimace. He is smiling to you softly and as though understandingly and sits on the edge of the bed, without touching you. He hands you the parcel and nods encouragingly.

It is a dress, elegant and practical, warm maroon colour, cut according to the latest Gondorian fashion, and you momentarily wonder how he managed to find it so far East. There is a velvet underbust corset and a belt to go on your hips, adorned with embroidery, with practical leather pouches on it. The cut of the dress is low but you notice another bundle. It contains all necessary undergarments, a pair of frivolous lacy drawers, undershirt, hardly reaching one's hips, and stockings and girdle. You inspect the gifts and lift a brow. "Can you be more of a lecher, honourable ranger? Something tells me all of these clothes will fit like a glove. And you have even thought of these," you pick up the drawers with your finger and dangle them before his nose. He chuckles, catches your hand and kisses the inside of your wrist.

"I do not want to be seen in a company of a Dwarven youngling in trousers. What will people think?" He is smiling to your warmly. You touch the silky material of the undershirt. You are grateful, it is easier this way. You press your face into his neck. He is stroking your back through the undertunic, and his voice is soothing, "You need to eat something, Alfirin. Life will seem easier after your favourite apple bloom tea." You chuckle into his skin.

He gets up but then leans in for a tender kiss. His lips are warm and familiar, and you close your eyes, breathing his fresh nutty smell. A light fragrance of his soap tickles your nose. When does he rise to have time for a bath?

"Where do you want to go, Amrod? Are we still heading East?" You initially chose Bree as it was the furthest point from the mountain. It still seems the most favourable destination at present time. His face is suddenly grave, but the eyes are laughing. "Well, we have four choices, my flower. North," he start opening his long fingers in front of your nose, and you laugh, "South, East..." You pounce at him, pull him back on the bed, silencing him with a kiss. His arms wrap around your middle, and he is thoroughly enjoying your lips.

"Where would you like to go, Alfirin?" He is murmuring into your temple, and you close eyes. Away, away from the mountain, away from the cold walls, away from the broken heart. "Bree still sounds lovely. I have heard a lot about the green fields around it and lush forests." He nods and presses you into him. "But first Ithilien, Alfirin." You move away and look into his eyes. "Ithilien is not on the way to Bree, it is quite the opposite direction, honourable ranger." "Yes," he runs his fingers through your hair and leans to your ear, "But I want to get married in Ithilien. I want my Aunt, my only living relative to give you away." You freeze, and your heart is frantically beating in your throat.


	3. Chapter 3

He is looking into your eyes, and somehow it feels like a test. But you have your decision, you think of the dark haired children and their laughter at the breakfast table, of his passion and his love, and you smile. "Very well, Ithilien first." He presses a kiss to your forehead and gets up. "I will go and see about the breakfast."

You are left alone in your room. You walk to the bath chambers, rinse your body, and back in your room you empty your backpack on the bed. You sort out your belongings, velvet Dwarven attires are put aside, the undergarments bought just before your leaving of Erebor folded and put back into the bag. You leave practical undershirt and stockings, but reject anything that was given to you by the King. At the bottom of the backpack you hide Thorin's ring and the small pouch with the flowers collected in the woods surrounding Erebor that one day in your first Spring of dwelling under the mountain.

You put your new clothes on, and they are indeed perfect fit. You sit down at the small desk in your room and write your King a short letter. In it you let him know that you consider yourself at his service no more. You inform him that all your belongings back in Erebor can be rid of and your position as a healer and a midwife can be filled to his best judgement. You thank him for the years, in which Erebor was your home, and you wish prosperity and happiness to his house. You seal it and quickly call an inn help. You give him the letter, and before your heart changes you ask the letter to be sent to Erebor.

You close the door behind the boy and press your palms to your cheeks. You heart hurts so much that you have to sit, your legs do not hold you up. But then you push yourself up, take a dagger you always carry with you and stand in front of the mirror. You gather your strands in your hand and in one quick movement you cut your hair. The copper curls now only cover your shoulder blades and you quickly braid them and put them away, few pins holding them together. You left a few thick locks out and quickly braid them into smaller plaits. You add them to your do. The typical Gondorian hairdo suits you. You put on the simple necklace made of clay beads that the children of this village gave you, and you go down to the common room.

Amdrod is playing with a pup on the floor, several children gathered around him, chatting loudly, competing for his attention. He lifts his eyes at you, and you see his eyes widen. You want to smile, but your lips tremble. "How do I look?" He comes to you in a few wide strides and pulls you into him. His voice is quiet, "Like a ranger's wife." You bite into your lip to reign your tears.

The children are quiet, understanding that something important is transpiring. You move away from him and give him a shaky smile. His eyes are warm and affectionate. "Where is my promised breakfast, ranger?" Your voice is choked, and he chuckles no less raspily. He gestures at the table, your tea and seedcake waiting for you. You sit courteously and eat.

You decide to start your journey by boat, down Andurin to Lothlorien. After that Amrod proposes to continue your travel by the River but you are arguing, the rapids of Sarn Gebir frighten you. You are not overly fond of water in general, having grown up in the docks of Enedwaith. "We can always travel cross-country, through the Entwash and the Wolt," you are insisting. "The lands are dangerous, they are crawling with Orcs." Amrod is studying you.

"How much do you know of the lands, Alfirin?" "I have served in Gondor in an infirmary before coming to Dale," you are sipping your tea. Amrod hums nonchalantly. You wonder if he will ask whether there is another man you left behind there, but you are not talking to a possessive Dwarf. The Gondorian is enjoying an apple.

"We could choose your way, Alfirin, but it will take longer. There is a portage at the West bank near Sarn Gebir, we can always take it." You chuckle, "While I am rather good on foot, honourable ranger, I am rather useless when it comes to carrying a boat. Unless you manage to snag us an Elven boat from the realm of Lady Galadriel, of course." He gives you a charming smile, and you shortly think that perhaps even the Lady of Lorien would not be able to resist him.

He leans back on the chair and bites into his apple. White teeth sink into its flesh, and you listen to the inner doings of your body. You are surprised to notice that while in his arms you are burning with unquenchable carnal hunger, out of the bed your thirst for him seems to have ebbed since you spent a night together.

"We should just start our journey and follow the flow, Alfirin. Let us worry when a worry comes," he is smiling widely, and you nod. The carelessness of the Gondorian is liberating. You finish your breakfast, and you are ready to leave the village.

Goodbying stretches, more and more people come to farewell and bestow the best of wishes, children ask for the last game of rings, and your bags are still sitting on a bench. The cook from the inn brings your favourite pies for you to take to the road, and you snack on them during the break in the game. You do not notice how the day passes, someone brings wine, you are dragged back into the inn for dinner. Usual dancing starts, and you are once again twirling in his arms.

You two fall into the bed, and you are dragging off his clothes. Wine does not affect him, but you see his cheeks are flushed, and he seems more impatient tonight. Once your palms slide on his warm smooth skin, all thoughts and doubts vacate your mind, and you are moaning shamelessly, your lips sliding down his muscled chest, hands roaming his beautiful sculpted back, and he falls back and stretches on the bed, allowing you your exploration. You unclasp his belt and pull off the trousers. He strips his tunic, and you run your hands along his lean strong body.

He lifts a brow, and it is quite obvious what he is expecting. Sudden bashfulness comes over you, and you feel your cheeks blush furiously. The candle is left burning this time, and you bite your lip. Last night very little was left to your control, and tonight it feels as if he is testing you. You sit on your knees and take a shuddered breath in.

He sits up suddenly and pulls you to him. "Alfirin," he presses his forehead to yours, and his hands cup your face, "I do not expect you to be insouciant with me just yet. After all, how many men have you bedded?" You lower your eyes. "Three." He nods and gives you a tender kiss. "It is hard to start everything anew." You sigh, but then a small chuckle escapes your lips. "Well, you should know of all people." He smiles in return, "I am honoured to be your fourth lover. And I am determined to be the last." You let him kiss you and wrap your arms around his neck. "Third, you are the third." He is caressing your neck, his palms slide on your breasts, and then he swiftly pulls off your undershirt. "Even better..."

He presses you into the sheets and brings you both over the edge, into an overwhelming release, your body trembling, your voice raspy from crying out. You settle on his chest, your fingers absentmindedly stroking his forearm. His skin is tanned, warm and as if glowing. There is no chest hair, but the arms and legs are covered in black one. You splay your small hand on his flat stomach, and he chuckles. "Are you evaluating your catch, Alfirin?" You snort into his shoulder. "Well, yes, I am, honourable ranger." "And?.." You lift your head and look into his laughing eyes. "Do you require praise and compliments all of a sudden? You are in danger of your head swelling so much that your neck will not be able to support it." He laughs and pulls your head back on his chest. "I do not require praise, but it would be nice to know you are not dreaming of somewhat different physique in my arms."

You freeze. He does not sound jealous or even particularly upset, he is sort of stating the fact, and you wonder what his real thoughts are on this matter. "I am not dreaming of anything in your arms, my mind is rather vacant at the time." He hums and pushes his fingers into your hair. "I like it this way. Suits you better." You press a kiss to his pectoral muscle. There is a long white scar on his ribs, and you stroke it with the tip of your fingers.

"What is this from?" "A Haradrim sword." You rise on your elbow and look into his face. "Tell me about it." He is looking at you, questioningly lifting his brows. "Please, Amrod?" You test your ploy of pointedly using his name, it works. He is telling you a story of a scouting expedition, and you are listening to his smoky voice. He suddenly asks about your childhood, and you are surprised to pour the story to him. He is astounded to find out that you grew up in Enedwaith, and then the question you expected for a while rises.

"Tell me of your dreams, Alfirin, where do they come from?" Something stops you from telling him of your magic. It is gone now, and there is not much to say. "I have the dreams, but they rarely come true. I can talk to unborn babes in women's wombs, which is very helpful for a midwife as you can assume. Sometimes I can predict weather." He is softly smiling to you. "Do you think you will be able to talk to our children when carrying them?" You ponder it. "I do not know, but we will have to wait for a while to find out." "Oh?" He lifts his brows, "For how long?" "Are you in a hurry to settle down, ranger? We have not enjoyed the road yet, and the track is no place for a child." He strokes your hair, and you understand that he is purposefully avoiding looking into your eyes. "Perhaps we will find our house with the ash tree in Ithilien." So he is in a hurry. You feel surprised. You are sleepy though and do not wish to argue. You curl into his side. "Let us worry when a worry comes, Amrod." He softly kisses your temple. "Sleep, Alfirin."

The dream comes, vivid and almost tangible, full of memories and the never forgotten terror. Your feet are sinking into cold swamp water, the heavy body of the Dwarven King in your hands. You are screaming his name, begging him not to leave you. His red flood is colouring your hands and your clothes, his beloved face pale and lifeless. And then you feel your magic pour into his weakened body, giving him his life back, and you open your eyes in a dark room in the inn, in the arms of the former ranger of Ithilien, and think of your gift. Whatever happens in your life now, that was magic well spent. You do not regret it and do not miss your golden glow. It lives in the heart of Thorin Oakenshield, and you do not wish it any other way.


	4. Chapter 4

Thorin returns to his bedchambers, and pulling off his clothes he falls into his bed. The healer has been gone for more than a moon now, but it still feels as if she just stepped out of the halls for one of her herb gathering trips into the woods surrounding Erebor. It still feels as if she will be back the next day. Except she will not.

The household keeps up with the routine that she set up, the sheets are still changed once a week, and a faint smell of some flowers lingers of them. They are cooling his body, and he closes his eyes. Two emotions are fighting in his mind, and he groans. He just wants to sleep, but the thoughts are railing in his head.

She left, and it took his two weeks to notice the changes in his life. The food is served as before, her seat is empty during dinners but they hardly shared any meals recently. The clothes and sheets are fresh, and a bath is ready for him every morning just as before. It was only the fifth day after her leaving when he noticed that there was something different with the bath. There were no flowers floating in the hot water, no essences, water clear and odourless. Yesterday morning he opened the cupboard in the bath chamber and spent a few minutes staring at the endless bottles in it. He felt completely lost and opened a box nearest to him. There were some dried flowers in there, and he touched one with the tips of his fingers. And then he berated himself for the sudden maudlinism. He snapped the doors of the cupboard closed and left without taking a bath at all. It has been more than a moon since she left, and he realizes now what changed. Everything feels dull and tasteless.

And immediately the second thought comes. He wanted her to leave. He wanted her to finally make this decision and bring some sort of clarity into his life. She refused to marry him, and he just cannot forgive it. She rejected him, repeatedly, every time her eyes full of tears but determined, she refused him but stayed, and he was just waiting for her to finally leave. And now her side of the bed is cold and empty, and he cannot sleep.

He is fighting with himself. Every time a thought of her comes, he pushes it back, berates himself for sentimentalism, clenches his teeth and finds himself something else to do. He tells himself that every day he thinks of her less and less, and sometimes he feels that it is even true. And then he realizes that it is not.

Thorin presses his face into the pillow. If only it was a carnal hunger that would keep him awake. There is a solution to that. For the first time he woke up with an erection, he forgot she was gone. He stretched his arm across the bed to where her narrow back under a gauzy night dress would be, elegant slender shoulder blades and gentle curve of her hip, half asleep and warm he wanted to pull her into himself, and then he froze.

When she was here, she never refused him. Even in the last few months before she packed her things and left, and he knew he hardly touched her, and he knew how mediocre it was, she did not push him away. He could see how sad her eyes were, when he would hurriedly satisfy his hunger, and he heard her crying in the bathchambers once. But she would always wrap her arms around his neck and press her lips to his.

He is staring at the green canopy over his bed. Did he know he was pushing her away? He tells himself he did not. She would leave eventually, he knew she would, he was just getting used to not having her around, weaning himself of her presence, of her warmth. And now it feels as if he did know what he was doing. He growls and grabs his hair. And then lets go in disgust. What is all this melodrama?

Thorin hates thinking about feelings, life is so much easier without it, just black and white. For him people are simple, bad or good, coward or warrior, loyal or traitor. What is the healer? Why did she leave? Why did he push her away? Did he do it though? His thoughts make a circle, and he is at the same spot again. He presses hands into his temples. The headache comes again, it became a frequent visitor since she left. He remembers her strong cool fingers on his temples, and he tries to mimic the circular movements she would make to ease his pain.

He stretches his arm and picks up the mug from the table. The water jug near it is empty. Every evening the healer would make sure it was full of water if either of them were thirsty. And that is when rage comes. He grabs the jug and flings it into the opposite wall. Shards fly around the room, and one of them grazes his cheek. He wipes the cut and in astonishment he is looking at the blood on his fingers. The mug follows, and then he just cannot stop.

He grabs the chair and smashes it into the wall. Papers and ink are swept off the table, and then he jerks a drawer out of the escritoire. Too late he realizes it is her desk, and small colourful objects scatter around the floor. He is standing in the middle of their bedchambers staring at her belongings under her feet. Beads, brushes she always seems to lose, little pieces of colourful paper and ribbons, little sachets of herbs, all of it so obviously different from his life, so plainly hers, that he steps back and sways. There is a knot in his throat, and he numbly wonders if he is indeed going to cry over the woman he threw out of his own life.

His mind is suddenly flooded with guilt and self-deprecation. It is all his fault. And then he is angry again. She always wanted to leave, now she will understand what it is like to be without him. This is a much pleasant thought, and he decides that this will be his opinion now. She will see how lonely she is, and she will come back, she will beg to take her back.

He climbs under the blankets again and closes his eyes. The sleep comes over him, and there are no dreams. He wakes up to the bleak light flooding the room. He feels tired and grumpy, and he pushes himself out of the bed with a groan. A piece of yesterday's jug gets jabbed into his foot, and he hisses. And then stares at the papers scattered on the floor. He scoots and picks up one of them.

His hand starts shaking, his eyes roaming a sketch of his own face. A wide smile, eyes hiding behind the lashes, hair obviously ruffled by the wind, underneath in her neat handwriting it says, "_Thorin in the woods, March 2948._" He looks at other papers, they are mostly drawings, familiar faces, Fili and Kili, Balin, Dwalin with his battle axe on his shoulder, and him, many and many, there are portraits, and just sketches of his profile, his sleeping face, and even a sketch of his hands. All carefully signed, dates and names marked, and again and again he sees his own name. He did not know she drew.

And again he is torn between hating her, she chose to hide even that about herself, and the excruciating ache in his chest. She loved him, he can almost see her bending over her desk, her long hair braided and put up, chewing at the end of the quill, a habit that she was so ashamed of, drawing his face again and again.

Thorin hates this. He hates feeling so much, hates not understanding what he feels, not being able to stop. He hates that he cannot sleep, that food tastes all wrong, he hates that everything he does seems to be done to spite her, to prove that he is not thinking of her. He hates how lonely he is, and he hates that it is not for her body that he wants her back. He does not feel any carnal hunger, and he just wants to say that it is the abstinence that is torturing him. And he hates that he cannot even say what is wrong now that she is gone and what it is that is missing.

In his desk he keeps her letters, in a neat pile. They all are the same, "_My dearest King, I am in..._" and then goes a name of a village, and the direction she is heading to. Then she wishes him good health and prosperity to Erebor. "_At your service, honourable healer Filigethiel._" Her Elven name irks him. In his head she is always _zundush_. After that first Spring when she asked not to call her _haban_ and strange piercing emotion filled him, her shoulder blades reminding him of frail bird's wings, and she became this bird in his mind. And that is when he knew she would leave, fly away, seek her freedom.

And then he feels confused again. Would she have left had he not pushed her away? And then he thinks of the cold cruel words he would give her instead of caresses of the past, he thinks of the confused wide open eyes, hurt and innocent, her lips he knew were trembling when he would turn around and leave the room. Thorin grabs another chair and swings it into the wall as well . Raging is easy, anger is clean and understandable. He growls and grabs a vase from a window. It breaks with a satisfying pitiful clank. Small pots with some fragrant herbs follow, each next one thrown with more force, and he even considers going to fetch his sword. He vengefully imagines how feathers from the pillows will float in the air, when he hears a knock at the door.

He stomps across the floor, probably jamming a few shards into his soles, but he is so furious that he does not notice. Now that he has a living breathing victim in his reach, crushing inanimate objects loses its charm. Snarling and yelling at a servant seems so much better. He swings the door open and freezes with his mouth open.

It is not a servant. He is staring at Balin and closes his mouth with a clank of his teeth. Balin is looking at him with a gentle concern, and it is almost as bad as looking at his own portrait drawn by her hand. "What is it?" His voice is gruff and unpleasant.

Balin peeks over his shoulder and obviously sees the destruction in the bedchambers. Thorin understands that the servants probably heard the noise, and no one dared to bother him. He shortly wonders if his behaviour has been much more aberrant recently than he thought. Has everybody been waiting for him to lose his temper sooner or later?

"Good morning, Thorin," Balin's voice is slightly reproachful, and he hands him a letter. The cursed neat handwriting of the healer is on the envelop, and he grinds his teeth. "Can I come in, Thorin?" Thorin drops his eyes on his feet and notices blood on floor. He did cut his sole. He curtly shakes his head.

"I need to get dressed, I can find you later if you wish to speak." Balin hesitates but nods. His eyes are searching Thorin's face, and the latter feels nauseated. And then he remembers the healer always laughing that she feels sick when nervous, and Thorin jerks his chin up. Balin is still standing in front of him but then gives him one of his concerned sighs and leaves.

Thorin closes the door with a bang and leans his back on it. He is looking at the letter in his hand, and then he decisively walks and stuffs it in one of her drawers. He bends down, picks up her drawings and puts them on the table. And then he thinks of the lovely blush that will flood her cheeks and the cleavage when she finds out that he saw them. He caught her pressing his shirt to her face once, and her cheeks and ears were burning with the brightest of pink. The small ears even felt hot, when he caught them in his mouth laughing at her hiding her face into his neck in embarrassment.

He closes his eyes and clenches his fists. There is no point in this mawkishness, he is not a sentimental simpleminded lass from a village. She will return to her senses, and she will be back here soon. He decisively walks to the desk and pulls out the letter again. He opens it, jerkingly slicing the envelop with a letter opener.

For the first time the opening phrase is different. "_Honourable King Thorin, son of Thrain, by this letter I inform you that I consider myself at your service no more..._"


	5. Chapter 5

By the end of the second day of traveling down the River Running you start feeling more at ease with the water constantly sloshing into the board of the boat. Sometimes you join Amrod in rowing, but most of the time he says that the water is so vivid at this time of Spring that your help is hardly required. You are sitting facing him, his even, seemingly effortless movements a mesmerizing harmonious rhythm.

You two talk. About your respective childhoods, yours in a poor village in Enedwaith, his in a rich house in Ithilien, you alone with your blind grandmother, he surrounded by four brothers and numerous relatives. You tell him of your service in Gondor and tell him of your affair with your mentor, carefully surveying his reactions. He smiles carelessly and jokingly points that you obviously find men with power more attractive. And rhetorically asks why you are even in his boat. You laugh and splash some water at him.

He tells you of his service and how he left the rangers after the company of young recruits under his charge was ambushed and killed. The fault was not his, but he understood the war was not for him. And again, there is a smile on his lips after he finishes his story and looks at you, and you wonder what allows him to recover seemingly without scars from so much and how much strength and resilience he carries in his heart. You lean back on the border of the boat and look at the blue sky. It is endless like the water around you, and you feel free and content.

You tell him about your friend Thea whom you left in Dale. You always write her letters and tell her of your travels. She is travelling East now, and you doubt she will receive your letters before Winter. He asks if you have written her about him, and you shake your head. He nods, and you have learnt by now that this gesture signifies him making a mental note of it. He will address it later.

He seems to be storing little pieces of knowledge in his head and then attack them later, meticulously and ruthlessly. He is strategizing, and you are certain he was an excellent captain for his soldiers. The only topic you avoid is the King Under the Mountain and the four years you spent in Erebor. You do not wish to think of it, and he does not insist.

In the evening he ties the boat to a tree, starts the fire, and you have dinner. The first night you curl into his side, both of you wrapped in warm cloaks, and sleep in peace. Tonight he is docking early, the sun is still high in the sky, and you look at him questioningly.

He starts the fire and sheds his cloak. "I would like to try something, Alfirin." He stretches his hand to you, and you let him pull you up. He gestures you to take off your cloak as well, and then he walks away and hangs one of your flasks on a branch on a tree. Then he picks up his bow and quiver and beckons you closer.

"I would like to teach you archery, Alfirin. I am certain you will be excellent at it." You sarcastically cock a brow, "Even if I miraculously manage to avoid killing you, I refuse to shoot at the flask. There is a chance I will actually hit it. Do you have no respect for material goods, ranger?" "We can always buy another one in the next village." You puff some air, "If we do not break this perfectly fine one, we will not have too." He laughs, "You are such a Dwarf, Alfirin." And then he turns his back to your aghast face and replaces the flask with a piece of bark. "Happy now?"

He walks around you and presses his body into your back. He shuffles his feet, pushes one of your legs ahead, and places the bow into your hands. You chuckle and press your pelvis back into him. The difference in your height adds an interesting dimension to this pose, and you wiggle a bit in his arms. He chuckles and lowers his lips to your ear, "Later, Alfirin."

You sigh and concentrate on the task. He teaches, endlessly patient, his long fingers enveloping your small hands, his low smokey voice caressing your name and names of the bow parts. He is not touching you more than necessary, but the pursuit seems endlessly sensual. You two shoot twice together, each time the arrow hitting the bark, and then he steps back from you allowing you an independent shot.

You close your eyes, take a long breath in and take the position. Something pushes you to concentrate really hard, the archery class feels like an initiation and a test for acceptance, and perhaps a small goodbye to your old days, and you exhale slowly and release the arrow. It hits the very center of the piece of the bark.

A wave of pleasure runs through your body. A never before felt shiver runs through your spine. You feel exuberant, but it is not about a skill or your success. You realize that it was not your eyes and not your hands that led your arrow, it was your magic. You were the wood of the shaft, straight and swift, you were the soft feathers of the fletching, you are the arrowhead, piercing and deadly.

You turn and look at him. His brows are hiked, and he looks very pleased. He pulls the arrow out, and you try again. You shoot again and again, you never miss, he replaces the bark with pine cones, you hit it every time.

He is laughing, a loud open laughter, shaking his chestnut mop, and white teeth gleaming, "I feel endlessly emasculated here, Alfirin. I was considered a born archer and yet I spent years in training, and you just hit every single time." He pulls you to him and catches your mouth. You smile into his mouth, and he cuts you down with his leg.

Clothes fly off, and he has you naked and spread on his cloak. His lips slide on your body, and you arch and whimper. Soon his mouth covers your sex, and his tongue is lapping on your folds. Two long fingers slide into you, and you lift your hips from the ground, softly crying out and searching your release.

And suddenly his fingers stop their forceful strokes inside you, and he switches to gentle swirls around that very spot that brings you most pleasure. The touches are sensual, but they are not enough.

"I want you to know, Alfirin, that I do not for a second believe your pretense." He sucks on your clit for a second, and then releases it. "You choose not to think of your King, but he is in your mind and your heart." You jerk and try to move away, but his large palm ceases your hip. He is gentle, his fingers do not dig into your skin, but he has you pinned to the ground.

"I know what I agreed on, Alfirin," he adds a bit more pressure in his ministrations inside you, and you moan louder, "But do not think me dim. You are mine, the way you are right now, spread and willing, and I will teach you that that is the real you." He lowers his lips on your folds, and you feel him gently bite into your flesh. You scream and the release is so close that you start begging.

"No, Alfirin, I do not wish your pleading, just tell me the truth. Are you thinking of him when my fingers are inside you? When I take you, only on your back so you can always see my face, are you thinking of your Dwarven King?" "No!" You scream out, and it is the truth. You think of him every other minute of the day, but not when your body belongs to the Gondorian.

"Good, remember this thought," he pushes his fingers into you down to his knuckles, and curls them up, his lips and tongue caressing your labia, and you climax with loud sobbing.

Your body is still shaking, and your eyes are squeezed tight, when he spreads your legs and pushes into you. You wail and press your hands into his shoulders. But a second later you wrap them around his neck and open your eyes. His eyes are dark but he is smiling softly. He starts moving, and you kiss him fiercely.

"I am yours, yours, I made my choice," you are murmuring, and the rhythm of his hips stutters. He presses you into the ground harder, and for a moment his composure slips. He lifts on one elbow, picks up your leg and places your foot on his shoulder. You are whining, you are too stretched, and he thrusts into you, his face almost pained, and you take him in. He is pounding harder, losing his control, and then he moans loudly and collapses on your body. He is heavy, and you feel very smug.

He jerks out of his stupour and slides down your body, his member slipping out of you. He is between your legs again, and a fingers is pushed into you. You are scampering away, you are oversensitive, but again his other hand grasps you. "This is the real you, Alfirin, this is how it should be." He swirls his finger in you, spreading both your fluids on your inner walls and your folds, "Viscid with my seed and with my smell between your thighs." He pulls your clit into his mouth and sucks hard. You are pushing him away but he is so much stronger. His large palm presses into your stomach, long fingers splayed on it, and you cave in. Your shoulder blades fall on the ground, and you give in to the painful climax again, your body convulsing and hands grabbing his hair.

He is pressing his cheeks to your thigh, and the reality returns. "You are a rather depraved man, ranger, are you not?" He chuckles and kisses your skin. "Note how much you disapprove of it, my flower." You are running your fingers through his waves. His breathing is even, and you feel cold. It is getting dark, and you two get dressed and intertwine your bodies under two cloaks.

"Tell me about the King, Alfirin, you need to talk about him." You shake your head and press your face into his chest. "Tell me just one thing, Alfirin," he concedes, and you sigh. "I saved his life twice, once in a battle, and once I healed him from a wound after an Orc ambush." You still do not wish to talk about your magic, it is not as if he will ever see it. "Why did you stay with him for four years? You knew he will not be yours forever." You should be in pain, he is purposefully worrying the old mental wounds, but all you feel is sated and sleepy. "I loved him. I thought it would enough but then it was not… It was to be like that..." You are almost asleep, and your voice is trailing away, "There was no future, no children, no ruling together…" Some hazy memory stirs in your mind, a forgotten dream, of children playing on the stone floor, of three blue eyed boys and a girl with your mother's brown irises, but then slumber takes you.


	6. Chapter 6

Two moons later you are swirling, faster and faster, on the floor of a small inn. Local men are sitting and talking, while girls and women dance, and you get pulled into a circle. You catch a glimpse of Amrod, he is sipping his ale and smiles to you. You return the smile and twirl faster.

Travelling with him is dizzying, like being dragged into a rapid whirlpool, as if dancing all the time. Settlements rush by your eyes, you change boats, you lose count, and sometimes you would suddenly make a detour, spend two days in some village, dance in the evening, make love through nights and buy trinkets. He constantly pulls small gifts for you out of his pockets, beads crawl into your braids, a bracelet of gentle silver chain and small pearls, ribbons and figurines. They get soon lost, forgotten in inns, at the campsites, nothing valued, nothing kept. He disappears late at night and returns with a pouch of silver. You do not ask, and he is just smiling. Sometimes you leave villages in haste, and you do not ask again. You let him lead in this dance, and it feels just right.

Every night feels like a battle. You get together, each one prepared to fight to the last breath, fight for dominance, for the right to choose positions, for the victory of unraveling and destroying the other. He wins almost every night, but slowly you are building your craft and your skill. He finally takes you from behind but makes you talk while he is bedding you, as he cannot see your eyes. You are sobbing out his name and tell how much you desired him the first night you danced together. He still does not allow you pleasure him with your mouth, he claims it is a right to be deserved. In retaliation you are determinedly breathing through the waves of pleasure overcoming you and do not reach your release for three hours, his mouth and fingers working you relentlessly. His finger slips in your other hole, and you climax with a scream. You suspect all inn heard it, but you do not care. The smirk on his lips tells you this knowledge will also be stored to be utilized later.

You are twirling, the wide skirts of your new blue dress flail, and you feel free and brave. With Amrod you feel beautiful, confident, powerful. Every day he is peeling another layer of the shell you built around your heart, the scars of your unrequited, desperate love for the King fading, every day he helps you grow a new armor for yourself, flexible and light. You feel like every day your step is swifter, your body stronger, your eye more precise.

The man is short and stocky, he grabs your upper arm and pulls you into him. "Hey, birdie, would you like to dance with a man for a change?" You pull your arm and search Amrod with your eyes. His chair is empty, and you shift your gaze back on the man. You feel panic rising, Amrod is gone and your misadventure seems to entertain the people around you, no one will try to help. He is obviously drunk, and his eyes are unfocused. "Oh, I have a better idea, birdie! Let us have a walk..." He is dragging you to the door, and you try to scamper from his hands. You hear dancers around you wolf whistle. You push him away, and when he does not yield, you knee him, at the same time twisting his ear with your free hand. He wails in pain and falls on the floor. The crowd cheers, and you step back. Amrod's arm lies around your waist, and he kisses your cheek. You lift your eyes at him, and suddenly you are livid.

"You saw everything that was happening! Why did you not interfere?!" He is giving you one of his careless smiles, and you feel like punching him. "You were obviously managing it, my flower. Why would I?" You twist out of his arms and stomp out of the door. You are so furious that you cannot even see his face.

He is sauntering after you. "Why are you angry, Alfirin? Do you prefer me coddling you like a possessive Dwarf? Not allowing you make a single independent step?" You spin on your heels. "I was scared there!" "Good, you should be, it is not safe in this world, especially for a woman!" You snarl at him, "That is what you were there for. To keep me safe." He is smiling smugly, and you clench your fists. "I will not always be there, Alfirin. One day you will have to protect yourself and possibly our children. You are to be a ranger's wife, you need to be able to defend your family."

"You are not even a ranger anymore, Amrod!" It is a low blow but you are unreasonably angry. You did get very frightened. You have forgotten what it is like to be treated like many other women are treated every day. You forgot that for many you are just a piece of meat. You have been the azyungal of the King Under the Mountain for too long.

"When we are back to Ithilien, it might change. I can return to service, they pay generously, and we can have the house we wanted." Something snaps in you, and you are yelling, "No! Absolutely not! Are you mad? This is not what I want at all!" He is staring at you, for the first time you see doubt in his eyes. "You have not even asked me, you just assumed! I do not want to settle down in Ithilien. Do you know what they say about rangers' wives?" "It is just a saying, Alfirin..." "A wife in a week, a widow in a year! You lot fall for a woman quickly and die even quicker. You promised me a road and careless living, I did not agree on being locked in another cage and worrying about another man every night. I have had enough of that!"

Suddenly he is furious, and it is terrifying. His eyes are narrowed, and he takes a step back, as if putting distance between you two. You have never seen his anger, and you shrink away. "Is that why you are here, Filegethiel?" Your old name is like a slap across your face. "Are you here for a careless life, for running away from any responsibilities, for being with a man you do not care about enough to worry about him?"

You slap him across the face. It is hard to do, he is so much taller, but you are that enraged. "I am here because I love you! Do not dare..." He does not let your finish, he grabs you, and his kiss is bruising. You claw at his shoulders, and he sobs into your mouth.

That night you are making love, slowly and sensually, open eyes, caressing hands, offering and giving, not asking for anything for oneself. He is murmuring words of love, and you promise your heart is his.

He is kissing your shoulder blades, and you stretch off the edge of the bed to reach for the pouch on your belt on the floor. "No, please..." His voice is quiet, and you look at him over your shoulder. You have the vial in your hand, the tonic needs to be taken right after the seed is spilled. You have already forgotten to take it twice this month, but those were safe days.

"If I do not take it," you show him the vial, "I will most certainly bear your child. My womb is ready tonight. And we still have half a moon of travel to Ithilien. And you do not know what there is there waiting for you. And you are still not my husband. So," you look him in the eyes and see the fire in them eb, "Should I take it?" He licks his lips and then nods. The taste is bitter and familiar. You find your usual spot on his chest, your head under his collarbone, and you close your eyes.

He is tenderly stroking your shoulders, his fingers drawing meaningless swirls on your skin. Something has been bothering you for a while, and you ask, "Are your brothers not alive? You said your aunt is your only living relative. What happened to them?" He is silent, and you lift your face. "They live," is voice is just slightly less lively than usual, but you have learnt his tones well, "They have ostracized me when I left the service. One cannot just choose to leave the service of a ranger," his eyes are distant, "They still serve in Ithilien."

That explains a lot. "Are you hoping to return their affection by going back to service?" He sighs, but the time of games has passed. You cup his cheek with your palm, "Amrod, I think it is time we start speaking openly." His eyes are cautious but then a small smile blooms on his lips, and his gaze warms up. "I am hoping to return their friendship. But you are right, Alfirin, the service is dangerous. And perhaps you do not wish to be a ranger's wife..." He trails off, a question in his tone. You search your mind and shake your head, "I do not. I do not wish to be tied to one spot again, I want to continue travelling." He sighs, "What does your augury tell you about our house then? When will we have to settle down?" You chuckle, "Do you not think you are taking our dreams too much to the letter? Perhaps it was just a sign for us to be together." He is shaking his head now, "No, Alfirin. I have seen the children, and my dreams are rather precise. We are to find that house and stay in it."

"Well, perhaps," you slide your palm down his stomach, "that is how it is to happen. We will not be careful, and a child will be conceived, and then we will have no other choice but to settle." He takes a long breath in, you fingers wrapping around his member, swelling in your palm. "Perhaps… Sounds rather plausible… With your constant dalliances…" He has trouble gathering his thoughts, you have learnt a lot in the past months. "My dalliances?" You feign indignation, "I am an innocent flower." He groans at your especially intricate movement and rolls you underneath him. "Take your tonic, Alfirin, I am going to show you a new trick." You guffaw, "Do you still have any in your arsenal, ranger?" His eyes are laughing, "You have not seen anything yet, my flower."

That night you dream of Erebor. Piercing cold is making your shudder, the winter wind blowing through an open window. You shortly wonder who would leave it open, and then you hear voices ringing behind you. You turn around, and a pair of blue eyes is staring at you. "Who are you?" The boy's voice is haughty, and he lifts his chin in a painfully familiar gesture. "I am Alfirin, and who you are?" He is viewing you suspiciously, "Everyone knows me, I am the Miracle of Erebor, prince Thror, son of Thorin." Your heart freezes from unbearable pain. He is Dwarven in his appearance, so much alike his father, and you understand the King found himself a yasith. The jealousy is so violent that you feel your nails dig into your palm.

"Thror!" The King's voice booms in the passage, and you are panicked. He cannot see you. The boy turns to the door, "I am here, adad." You jump and press your palm to his mouth. "No, no," you are shushing him, and over your palm his father's eyes are glaring at you, "Please, be quiet, he cannot know I am here." Somehow you know it is important to conceal yourself. You let him go, and he gives you a lookover. "Why are you wearing such strange attire?" You look at yourself, there is a white velvet dress with diamonds and white fur on collar and sleeves. It is obviously Dwarven and very beautiful. "What do you mean, strange? It is a dress." You feel rather offended, and he lifts his brow. You clench your jaw, he looks so much like his father. "Of course it is a dress," he sighs in exasperation, "It is my mother's wedding dress. You are not allowed to touch it. Unna tried to take it out of the cupboard the other day, amad was not happy." He stretches his wide hand and strokes the white fur on your sleeve. "Is Unna your nursery maid?" He gives you a disbelieving look. "Unna is my sister. Are you not from around here?" You shake your head, and then the door opens. You panic and step back. The King is standing in the doorframe. His eyes widen, and his mouth falls open. "Zhundushin..."

You wake up with a scream and cannot reign your tears for a long time. Amrod is stroking your back, but you cannot seem to return to your senses. "You were talking in Dwarven language in your sleep again, Alfirin… Were you dreaming of the mountain?" You press your face into him, and he lets you cry. You do not wish to speak of the pain that resides in your heart.


	7. Chapter 7

You jump on the man and press the dagger to his throat. He has genuine surprise written on his face. You bare your teeth, "I am a ranger's wife, scum, did you genuinely expect I would not notice you?" Amrod steps out of the bushes, and the tip of his sword jabs at the back on the man's neck.

"Talk, honourable sir. First, we catch a glimpse of your face in the inn, and now you are circling our camp. There is a chance, of course, that you just enjoy the spectacle," he gives you a wink, and you roll your eyes, "We sincerely hope you enjoyed our performance tonight, but nonetheless, we do require some clarification." You are in your undergarments, which allowed you to lure the man out of the bushes. You often surprise yourself how comfortable you are in the state of undress these days.

"I was hired to watch," the man's voice is gruff. He is rather tall, dark haired, wide toothy grin adorns his face. "The accent of a man from the glorious city of Dale," Amrod shakes his head, "You have traveled far from home, honourable sir." "Esgaroth," you correct your lover. "I will trust your judgement, Alfirin, you are so much better in the art of tongue." You chuckle, "If you were better in verbal arts, my honourable ranger, we would not have to fight off men you owe money every second day."

Amrod is smiling blissfully, "Yes, fair enough, but imagine how boring our travels would be then, Alfirin!" You shake your head and press the blade into the man's skin. "Who paid you?" He gives you a cynical look. He is an obvious sword for hire, they usually have at least some resemblance to a code. "You are not going to kill me, m'lady, I have been following you two enough to know you are no murderers." You give him an unpleasant smile.

"Fair enough, honourable sir, but as you have also probably learnt, I am rather proficient in brewing draughts. Can you imagine what lovely consequences you might have to face if I pour some sort of intriguing mixture into your throat?" Amrod ties the man's arms behind his back in a swift trained movement. He then kicks him under the knees, and the man collapses on the ground. You step forward closer to the kneeling hireling and look down at him.

"I can make you empty your stomach in the most excruciating ways for three days in a row," the man looks slightly concerned as it seems. You lean closer, your lips almost touching his ear, "Or put your manhood to sleep… Till the day you die." You straighten up and look in his eyes. Whatever he sees in yours convinces him that, code or no code, it is definitely not worth it.

"I was hired by the King Under the Mountain, Thorin, son of Thrain to find a red haired healer from Dale, who was supposedly last seen in the Vales of Anduin. I caught up with you five days ago. And your swain is right, the two of you did perform gloriously last night." You step back and turn your back to him. You do not wish him to see the grimace on your face. Judging by the dull thud behind you and then a sound of a heavy body hitting the ground, neither does Amrod.

You feel his hand on your shoulder, and you shake your head. You bend and pick up your dress from the ground, throw it on and walk away from the campsite. It has been five moons since you left Erebor. It has been two weeks since a thought of Thorin Oakenshield came to your mind. You are one day's travel from Minas Tirith and thus two day's travel from Emyn Arnen, your final destination. In your backpack you have a parcel with a dress of periwinkle colour for your wedding.

Amrod does not follow you, and you sit on the edge of water, looking at the stream. You are cold, it is getting dark, but the last thing you want at this moment is to face your betrothed. He has an astonishing ability to see through all your pretenses and look right into your heart. And it is aching and confused. You do not know what you are feeling.

And then you get up and return to the campsite. There is nothing to agonize about, nothing has changed. You did not expect the King to even inquire about you after the letter you wrote him, Dwarven pride, you thought, would not allow him pursue a woman who rejected him, but still nothing has changed. You find Amrod leaning on a tree, his eyes closed, posture relaxed, sitting near the unconscious body of the hired sword.

"Once he awakens, we should pay him for the damage, hopefully his dim mind will recover fully, and we should send him back from where he came," your tone is even, and Amrod opens his warm chestnut eyes, "I think his report will be enough for his master." Amrod is studying your face, and you give him an encouraging smile. He does not return it. He can see in your heart better than you are capable yourself, and you do not know what he sees there. But then he nods, and you start cooking dinner.

By the sunset of the next day you reach the white walls of the Gondorian capital. You find an inn, and you fall in a bed, exhausted by the travel and the strange feeling of unease that is eating at your heart. Amrod is unusually silent, and you press yourself into his body. He sighs, and you fall asleep, his long fingers gently running through your hair.

The next day you are leaving the city, in the same state of strange numbness, when you hear a voice behind you, "Wren?" In the years that passed Aldacar has not changed much, his hair is longer, the eyes the same steely colour. He is clad in the official robes of the Gondor Guard, and his tall figure is radiating the same cold serenity that all those years before. You are silent, not knowing what to say. He looks over you, and his eyes fall on Amrod's figure. They are the same height, and Amrod lifts one brow. "Aldacar, what a surprise to see you," your voice is raspy, "And in the armour of a Guard of Citadel no less." "I have accepted service in Minas Tirith. They say a war is coming, and many will be wounded protecting the White City. I wish to be here to assist." Noble and cold as always. You nod and slightly turn your head. "Allow me to introduce Amrod, son of Mablung, my future husband. Aldacar, son of Elindil, my former mentor." Aldacar's cold face contorts, while Amrod smiles in the most joyous manner. "Oh, the healer to whom we all are in the eternal debt for our Wren's extraordinary skills," he picks up your hand and presses his lips to your knuckles. His smile is positively radiant, and you give him a reproachful sideways glare. He looks exuberant.

Something is really wrong in this scene, suddenly everything swims in front of your eyes, and you start keeling. Amrod's arms catch you, and the world fades away. The last thing you notice is the dull pain in your abdomen and the overwhelming feeling of dread clenching at your heart.

You open your eyes and understand you are in the infirmary. The walls are familiar, as well as the face of a healer. You vaguely remember serving together after you left Aldacar's infirmary. The name eludes your memory. Amrod is sitting near your cod, he is pallid, and his eyes are red. Horror floods you, and you do not need to ask. Your hands fly to your stomach. He notices your movement, and his mouth twists in a pained grimace.

You start thrashing in your bed, and it takes two orderly to force a calming draught into you. You are crying and screaming, and it takes an hour for you to stop wailing. Amrod is pressing you into his body, tears running down his face.

The draught is overpowering you, and you are pleading, "Please, please, I do not want to fall asleep… The dreams will come… My baby, my son… He will come..." A choked scream escapes Amrod's lips, he has seen your son in his dreams too. A tall lanky youth with a mop of chestnut curls, vivid dark eyes and your curve of lips. The boy with a pure soul and a perpetual smile on his lips. The boy with a talent for music and no talent for whittling. The boy that will never be. You are begging and begging, and Amrod is crying, and it is hard to say who is consoling whom, and the sleep rolls over you, dark and suffocating.

The nightmares are ruthless, your son's face again and again floating from the mist of your pain and despair, you are begging for forgiveness, not understanding your own blame, you are lashing and flailing, the emotional pain is so excruciating that after a while you start looking for reasons, for your faults, for the wrong step you took. Was it the cold ground you sat on by the river? Was it the brawl in that inn you swirled and laughed through and chastised Amrod for later? Was it your small body? Was it your wicked mind? Was it the broken heart of the King Under the Mountain?

The worst nightmare comes. You are sitting on the floor of the dining hall in Erebor, clutching a shirt of your unborn son in your hands, you know it is his, you embroidered the collar yourself. You are weeping, hot desperate tears running down your face, the hem of your undertunic and your bare legs covered in blood, dull pain eroding your abdomen, and you think you will never want to breathe again, to take a step, to swallow a piece of food, nothing will ever be a joy for you, you do not deserve any. You fall on the floor and press your face into the thin material of the shirt.

And then a warm palm lies on your shoulder. "Alfirin," the voice is low and melodic, and you do not move. "Filegethiel… Khazad Bahinh… Zundushinh..." Your body jolts, and you look at the man kneeling near you.

He is a Dwarf but you have never seen such features in Khazad. The nose is long and noble, cheekbones high, and the slanted eyes are of the brightest green you have ever seen. The structure of his face is elegant and fine, serenity and wisdom reign his expression. He is too lithe and narrow for a Dwarf, hair of the brightest auburn colour, and something in his profile seems familiar. His eyes are looking at you with warmth, and the pain wrecking your body seems to abate a little.

"Do not blame yourself, Zundushinh, it was not to be." The tears start anew, but you have no strength to weep anymore. He moves wet hair off your face and sits on the floor near you. "Let me tell you about my mother, Zundushinh. She is fair, and just, and loving, and stubborn as a hundred Dwarves," he chuckles and then wipes tears off your cheek with his hot hand, "And kind, and forgiving, and she always sees the best in everyone she meets. Except herself. She always finds fault in herself that she does not see in others." He is smiling to you, and you can finally take a breath in. "Embrace the pain, Filegethiel, the noble healer from Dale, take it in, accept it. Let yourself grieve but do not blame yourself. It was not to be."

You open your eyes in the darkness of the room in the infirmary and look at the immobile form of Amrod in the chair. He jerks and moves closer to your bed. He kneels in front of it and presses his face into your hand lying on the sheets. You stroke his hair and smile to him. You will endure this together.


	8. Chapter 8

_Six years later_

The dream comes, dark and terrifying. Thorin is thrashing in the oak bed that used to belong to both of you, the green heavy canopy lifted, healers rushing around him. You hear Balin's voice, "_The wound is infected, Oin does not know how to proceed..._" The voice fades, you see Fili and Kili, faces pale, Dwalin by the wall, his fist clenched in front of his mouth. "_The herbs will not help, he is too far gone..._" You smell the balms in the air, they are tending to his fever, his face is pallid, sweat on his brow. "_Zundush, ghivashel, kurdu..._" He is whispering in his delirium, and you recoil back. You know it is just a dream, you will yourself to wake up, but you cannot shake the feverish mist off. And suddenly King opens his eyes, the blue irises burning, "_Zundush, uggun..._" Fili leans to his face, "She will not return, Uncle, she has been gone for seven years to the day… Tell us what to do..." Thorin's hand grabs his shirt with a surprising strength, "_Sanruthukh, __kidhuzur urzudal…_"

You sit up in your bed, press your palms to your cheeks and try to calm your heart, beating in your throat. Amrod is asleep, and you slip out of the bed. Being awake near him will surely waken him too, he has very light sleep. You throw a shawl over your shoulders and step out onto the porch. The Summer night is warm and fragrant, and you curl up on a chair. You pull your knees to your nose and think of the faraway mountain.

_Sanruthukh, __kidhuzur urzudal… _In your dream the King asked for "the perfect hand with the gift of the golden glow." You stretch your hand and curl up your fingers. Your gift is gone, he surely should know that. It has been seven years since it showed itself last. And then you remind yourself it is just a dream. But you cannot shake off the certainty of a foreboding. If you start your journey at the moment, you will reach Erebor just on time to probably prevent him from being wounded or at least arrive to save his life. And then you are doubtful. Even if you find yourself in that bedroom, how are you to accomplish that?

You are staring at your hand and then a presage pushes you to get up and silently tiptoe to the closet. At the very back you find your old abandoned backpack. You carry it to the porch and push your hand at the very bottom. You pull out a small sachet, and his ring falls on your palm from it. You stroke the engraving on it, it is the combination of two runes, "th" and "o" intertwined. You are almost not surprised when a small golden spark jumps between the pulp of your finger and the rune.

You walk back into the room and shake Amrod's shoulder. He immediately opens his eyes, attentive and astute. "What is it, Alfirin?" "I need to travel to Erebor," your voice is calm, and he sharply sits up. "What?" "I had a prophetic dream, I need to go to the Lonely Mountain to save the life of King Thorin." His jaw clenches. You can see he is pondering your words and calculating his next move. You have always appreciated the lack of rashness in him.

"How certain are you that he needs your help?" "I am certain. And there is very little time, we need to hurry." "We?" He lifts his brows. Even his composure has its limits, "Do you expect me to leave my service and travel across the world to save the life of your former lover?" His voice is almost cheery. It is a bad sign. "I expect you to trust my gift and my judgement." He rubs his face with his palms. "Alfirin..." "You know I would not dare traveling now if I was not certain…" "But Alfirin..." "It is not a discussion, Amrod, we are going." He is looking into your face, the pause stretches, but you have been together long enough so that no words need to be exchanged. He shakes his head. "Can we at least leave in the morning? Even I need sleep sometimes, Alfirin." You slide back under the covers, and he embraces you from behind. You doubt he will sleep, but to your own disbelief the deepest peaceful slumber overcomes you just a few moments later.

You set out into the journey, a small procession, taking the shortest but still the safest route by the Great West Road and through the Westemnet. You are pushing forward, impatient and restless. The day marking seven years since your departure from Erebor is approaching fast, you are afraid you will not make it on time. You stop sleeping at night, you hardly eat, but ponies need rest, and so do your companions.

You approach Dale when the sun of the day you saw in your dream is setting, and you do not let your companions dismount. An hour later you reach the Front Gate of Erebor, and you are stopped by the guards. Their faces are mournful, and you know you have no time left. You throw the hood off your face and bark an order in Khuzdul. The premonition and the long forgotten power rush through your nerves, and the guards step aside.

You haste along the paved path to the Erebor Gates, your steps echoing through deserted halls, all Erebor still and tense in dread over the life of the King slipping away, and you rush through the familiar halls. You push the doors of the bedchambers, they hit the walls with the bang, making the Dwarves inside jump up. Dwalin lowers his fist from his face in shock, and you see a bowl falling out of Oin's hands.

You kneel in front of the bed, press your palms to the sides of the King's face, and whisper into his ear, "Thorin…. I am here, I came..." His skin is burning, he is pale, and purple shadows lie under his eyes. There is more silver in his hair, and harsher lines lie around his mouth. The thick lashes flutter, and the endlessly familiar lips move, "Kurdu… Sanyasith..." The golden glow bursts out of your palms. Your magic blooms like a giant flower around your hands touching his skin, long flames licking his face, snaking and slithering around his body, he takes a spasmodic breath in, his back arching, the poison from the Orc arrow spilling from his wound, black and venomous, on the sheets, and his palms press over your hands on his face.

He falls back into the sheets and for an instant the blue eyes open, "You came..." You forgot his voice, low and velvet, and you smile not noticing the tears running down your face. "Do not go again…" His eyes close, his hands slide on the sheets. His breathing is even, and you faint on the floor.

You open your eyes and meet a warm stare of Balin's brown irises. "How is he?" The old Dwarf smiles to you and moves on the edge of the bed you are lying at. You try to sit up, but he presses his palm into your shoulder. "You need rest, my lady. Such feats take a lot from you, as we know. You need to repose. The King sleeps peacefully, his wound has even closed. The fever has ebbed." His voice is soft and awed, and you fall back into your pillows. "And my companions?" "They are placed in the guest rooms across the passage from you. They are tended to as the most honourable guests of Erebor. After all, they accompany the Gem of Erebor." You look at him in confusion. "The old barmpot of Oin coined a new moniker for you." He chuckles, and his eyes are roaming your face. You feel slight blush colour your cheeks. "It is a pleasure to see you, old friend." He hikes up his brows from such familiarity from you, but you are not a frightened young lass he met all those years ago anymore. He smiles back and pats your shoulder, "The pleasure is all mine, sanbah."

You wake up after probably two hours and go find Amrod in a luxurious guest room. He is sitting on a bed, his face buried in his hands, and you halt in the door frame. He does not need to look up to know you are standing near. "You lied to me, Alfirin. All these years, after everything we have been through… You lied to me," he lifts his eyes at you, and there is so much pain and fury in them that it seems a storm is raging in them. You lower your eyes, "When we met I did not know if there was any magic left in me, I thought I had used it all up." You feel his focused burning glare on you, he had a few hours to think it through. "Those two times that you had saved his life, was it your magic as well, Alfirin? This flame… This fire, was it the same gift?" You nod. He is silent and you look at him. His face is distant, you can see the cold scrutiny of his thinking. And then he looks straight into your eyes, and you are pinned to the floor. "Does you magic come from your heart, Alfirin? Did you save the King those times in the past because you loved him?" You fully understand what the affirmative answer to this question would mean and what light it would pour on the events of today, but you cannot lie to Amrod. You nod. He exhales sharply and shakes his head.

You walk up to him and sit on the bed near him. You take his hand and stroke his knuckles. He is your best friend, your husband, your lover, he has helped you grow and strive, he taught you everything you know about yourself, and you learnt to love and appreciate Alfirin, the ranger's wife. You have nothing to be ashamed of. "Let us go home, Amrod. I just want to go home with you." He is looking at you in confusion, and you smile and reach for his lips.

He wraps his arms around you and pushes you on the bed. Mouths meet in familiar rhythm, you gently run your fingers through his curls, natural simple caress, his lips and tongue meet yours, and you rub your calf to his thigh.

A knock at the door halts you two, and he drops the head on the sheet above your shoulder. You extricate yourself from his arms, get up and fix your clothes. You notice that the lacing on your tunic are already open and you tut-tut at him. He gives you his best smug though slightly shaky smirk. You open the door and get scooped into a bear hug from Dwalin, son of Fundin. You laugh weakly, hardly any air is reaching your lungs. Fili and Kili rush into the room, more and more familiar faces appear, everyone is talking at the same time, and you feel dizzy. You introduce Amrod and see a wrinkle lie between his brows.

You understand his frustration. Just as him you had a different plan in your mind. Disappear quickly before Dwarves understand what has happened, swiftly leave Erebor, now that you feel you have fulfilled your duty, no gratitude required, flee before the King awakes, now that he is in no danger... as you have nothing to do in Erebor.

The Dwarves have other plans. In the light of today's events they hardly worry about propriety, and the circumstances of five years ago are forgotten, they are relieved and elated, and for a Dwarf such emotions demand only one reaction. They are preparing to feast, and you try to tell that you need to leave. No one is listening. Fili has already extricated the information of his vocation out of Amrod and is already boasting of his knives. Kili interrupts saying that obviously a ranger would be more interested in comparing bows and arrows than some "lousy daggers," they start bickering loudly, Amrod shifting his gaze between the two in confusion. Older Dwarves interfere, and you see Amrod frowning, and you give him an apologetic look. You realize there was very little hope to avoid this from the start.

You assume the King will sleep for another eight hours or so. You just need to find a favourable moment and quickly take your backpacks and make a run for the stables. You just hope they have not moved them in the last seven years.

Everyone is talking at the same time, and then suddenly it is silence in the room. All eyes are on the door behind you, and you turn and look over your shoulder. The King, pale and unstable on his feet, supported by a healer, his upper body bandaged and bare, is standing, leaning on the doorframe. His burning cerulean eyes are on you, and you gulp. "Zundushinh..."

**A/N: Of course, it was Dain. And the hair and eyes are right. Green eyes like the leaves of the oak tree he is conceived under, and the auburn hair of the colour of stag's fur. **


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: ****Dearreader****, you are obviously not dense, my darling! It is as confusing for Wren as it is for you :) her dreams and visions are her other life leaking through, and she herself is not aware of who Thror and Dain are. They are the future that could have been (as we all know), or perhaps, the one that is still to be *wink wink* but I just could not negate Dain completely, could I? Oh, my beautiful boy! :) But you can ascribe whatever meaning to these visions you want. I just thought that Dain loves his amad so much that he would take care of her even from the oblivion of non-existence. And no, they are not Amrod's children. Amrod and Wren lost their son in Chapter 7, and the two dark haired daughters with Amrod's eyes that they are to have… Well, you have to read further to find out :)**

"Zundushinh..." The King's lips wrap around the name you have not heard in seven years, and your head swims. The world shrinks, and all you can see are his cerulean eyes. You do not know how you get up and approach him. The last step brings you close to him, the heat from his body splashes onto your skin. He pushes away from the Dwarf supporting him and sways to stand upright. Your eyes are roaming his face, and suddenly he grabs the back of your head and pulls you into a forceful kiss.

Your mind screams in protest, you are aware of a slight movement Amrod makes behind you, but your body is beyond your control. Your hand flies to his chest, the scorching skin lies under your palm, burning you, sending a fervent jolt through your body, and you lean in, if only for a minuscule, unnoticeably for anybody but the King. Your sense reigns an instant later, before either of you moves their lips, and you try pushing him away. And then the tip of Amrod's sword is pressed into the side of the King's throat.

"Unhand my wife, honourable King, or I will negate the purpose of this visit." The King releases your lips, but his hand does not abandon you. He slides his palm on your shoulder and lifts feverish eyes on Amrod. The stares of the two men are locked in a silent clash, when you make the gravest mistake of your life. You put your hand over the King's and speak softly, "Thorin, please..." And then you realize the erroneousness of your proceeding. You are addressing the wrong man.

You step back and swirl to face Amrod. His face is dark, eyes vacant, lips pale, and you rush to him. But the damage is done. He lowers his sword, his jaws clench, and he narrows his eyes. You grab his upper arm, he does not take it away, but it feels as if you are touching a sculpture.

The door opens, and two people rush in. Followed by a maid probably assigned to her, you see your daughter run into the room. The copper curls swirl in the air, astute blue eyes brilliant, she darts to you and presses her body into your skirts. Her melodic voice rings through the silent room, "Emel, you need me near now." You kneel in front of her, and she throws her arms around your neck. The maid is apologising, you shake your head reassuringly, Mira has the mind of her own. And an extraordinary mind it is.

You are looking in your daughter's eyes, and she smiles, "Have I come on time, emel?" You nod, and she turns around and looks at the King. He is stupefied, taking short shallow breaths, and she steps to him. Having inherited your hair and shape of lips, as well as noble features perhaps from some ancestors of Amrod, her face not reminiscent of either of you, she is an astonishingly beautiful child. The face is harmonious, eyes of the brightest blue, under the longest black lashes, your curved line of lips but not standing out and strange, but in an endlessly charming, graceful allure. People stop you in the streets for a chance to speak to her.

"Are you the honourable King Under the Mountain?" He blinks and nods. She courtseys, but then he receives her peculiar clever look from under the frowned delicate brows, "You are missing a shirt, my lord." The King's eyes widen, and then you hear the unmistakable warm chuckle of the younger prince of Erebor. The Dwarves having frozen when the King kissed you finally stir out of their stupour. Mira turns around and smiles to Kili.

The tension in the room is dissipated. Mira comes up to her father and picks up his hand. He pushes his sword into his scabbard, and you introduce her to those present. She is six, but Maiar gifted you with a wondrous child. She manages to engage Dwarves into a meaningful friendly conversation, Balin scooting in front of her, Fili and Kili admiring her hair and letting her touch their braids, you even catch a glimpse of a small smile on Dwalin's lips.

You glance at the King, he is leaning on the doorframe, his eyes glued to Mira's lively amicable face. And then you catch him darkly glare at Amrod's proud smile. Your heart clenches from acute jealousy and enmity splashing in the King's blue eyes. And with a terrifying clarity you realize you have brought your family to destruction. Heavy wheels of your destiny have bestirred, cogs catching other cogs, interlocking your fate with that of Thorin Oakenshield for once again, and you feel faint.

And then you notice his pallid complexion and sweat on his brow. "Master Oin, I am afraid we are tiring the King, perhaps we all should repose. With all honesty, I would like some rest myself." Everyone starts moving, hastily apologising and excusing themselves, Dwalin supports the King, and soon you are left in the room with Amrod and Mira.

It is late, and you lead her to the bedroom assigned to her. She climbs under the covers, and you press a kiss to her temple. Her small delicate hands envelop yours on the sheets, and for a moment you two are silent. "Are you distressed, emel?" At the age of two she chose to address you "emel", " mother" in Sindarin claiming then that it was "beautifuller and truer." You strive to but cannot bring yourself to smile, "I am just tired, guren." She is pondering your face, "You saved your King, emel, it was a good day." You stroke her hair, "He is not my King, Mira, we serve the Steward of Gondor, remember?"

Her bright cerulean eyes are studying you, and then she smiles that enigmatic smile of hers that is so strange on a face of a six year old. "He is your King as he belongs to you, emel, and not you to him. He is a funny sad Dwarf, is he not?" Her usual paradoxical statement makes you shiver. And then you smile for the first time, "Not many will agree with you, Mira. King Thorin is thought to be anything but funny." She nests into the pillows, and you lean to kiss her. "He is funny because he is always wrong. And sad because he is very lonely," you are turning to put out the candle, when she touches your hand, "We should stay here longer, emel, he needs our help." You bite your bottom lip and blow out the candle. "Sleep, guren, we will see what tomorrow brings."

When you return to your bedroom, Amrod is sitting by the window, looking over the Valley of Erebor. Lights can be seen down below, the city stirring and the mountain rumbling, the word of the King's recovery spreading fast. You lock the door behind you and brace yourself.

He lifts his eyes at you. He looks exhausted and morose, and you are flooded with guilt. And then you remind yourself that you have nothing to be ashamed of. "Shall we speak openly, Amrod?" "What is there to speak of, Alfirin?" His voice is mocking, "You are rushing to save your former beau, and what is the first thing he does upon waking up? What does the King Under the Mountain does upon seeing my wife after seven years when I remember she claimed she told him she was not his anymore?" He is smiling, cold eyes, tense mouth. You hate this smile of his.

"He obviously did not know I was your wife, perhaps all those years ago he had not received the report." "Or perhaps something told him he had the right to do it." You are staring at him in astoundment, "What in the name of Valar are you about?"

"I am talking about your magic, Alfirin," he jumps on his feet and makes a step towards you, towering over you, "The magic that you hid from me! The magic that saved his life yet again! The golden fire that was practically fondling him!" He is raising his voice, and you shush him. "Restrain yourself, Amrod. Do you want all Erebor to know of your jealousy?" "I could not care less of what the Dwarven kingdom thinks of me! And I have every right to be jealous, Alfirin! How many times have I asked myself why our daughter is so different from the children from my dreams? How many times have I thought that my bastard blood made her into what she is?"

You recoil from him in terror, "There is nothing wrong with our daughter! How can you?!.. All these years, you thought there is something… How can you? She is a miracle!" "She deprived you of a chance of being a mother again!" You slap his across the face, and then again. "Do not dare speaking of my daughter this way!"

Violent sobs shake your body, you feel as if you are in the darkest of your nightmares and you are desperately trying to wake up. Your life is collapsing around you, and you are shaking. "How can you speak of our daughter like that?! All these years, is that how you felt? I thought you proud of her, but now… Are you ashamed of her?!" Your voice breaks, and you step away from him.

His shoulders sag, "You are well aware of how much I love her, Alfirin. But she is not the child we were destined to have! And she was not to be the only one and the last one!" He stretches his hand to you in a desperate gesture, and you take another step back. He is trying to get his point across, his voice pained, and you are staring at him aghast, "I thought my dreams were the reason, but look at her, Alfirin! She is magic, and chaos, just like you as it turns out, just like your golden fire. She might as well be his! Look at her eyes!" You press your hands to your mouth, you feel as if your world is crumbling around and there is nothing you can do. You brought it upon yourself. You ruined everything by coming here.

And then rage comes. How dares he?! How dares he belie everything you have, everything you two built over the years?! And why? Because of his jealousy, because his life did not turn out the way he saw in his naive dreams? Life never does, it is chaos and tumult, and he of all people should know it. And then suddenly the understanding comes. How could you be so blind?

"You are scared," your sobbing ceases, you are suddenly calm, and you are looking at him attentively, while his face contorts in pain, "You are scared that whatever my magic is, it links me to him, and you are afraid that Mira has it too. You are afraid he will take me and her away." He is not looking at you. "We are not ponies to be led by reigns, Amrod, the decision is mine to make! And do you honestly think I would betray what we have and leave you?"

"You left him!" He blurts out, and twirls away from you, "You loved him more than anything in this life, do you honestly think I did not see it? You loved him and yet you left him, you chose me, for the dreams, for the children, for the house, and I did not give them to you." His voice breaks, and you can finally see his pain for what it is.

You rush to him, spin his and make him look into your face. "Are you mad? Do you think so little of me? I did not go with you for any of those things, I went with you because I wanted to be your Alfirin, I wanted to become the woman you saw in me. And I have not regretted it for a day." He finally lifts his dark eyes at you, and you cup his face, "I never wanted that house with an ash tree by it, Amrod. I wanted you, I wanted us, and you fathered my perfect child. She is perfect, the way she is. And even if she is born with my magic, she is yours. She is your daughter," he closes his eyes, and you see a tear running down his cheek. You wipe it and pull his head down. You press your lips to his in a chaste kiss. And he sighs and embraces you. You are standing, intertwined and silent, for a long time.


	10. Chapter 10

The next morning you wake up in the guest bedroom, and to your surprise you feel the warmth of Amrod's body near you, his arm lying across your body. All through these years you are accustomed to waking up to an empty bed. He always sleeps on his half, sometimes half his body sloping off the edge of the bed, and he requires but five hours per night. Right now it takes you a fair amount of wiggling to slide from under his arm, and still he does not wake up. You throw a dress over your undertunic and go to Mira's room.

She is gone, and you catch a passing servant by the arm. On your way you have met five, and there are two more a bit further by the corridor. They are trying to behave inconspicuously, but you can feel their eyes on you. You understand they are curious, most of their faces are familiar, and you nod to them. The servant directs you to the King's bedchambers, as according to him "the young lady demanded an audience with the King." You rush by the passages, hurriedly braiding your hair on the run.

Mira is sitting on the edge on the King's bed, dangling her legs, he is reposing in the pillows, his hair wet after a bath, clean shirt covering the bandages. You hear your daughter's clear voice and freeze in the doors, "... and then she fell in love with him, and her heart was singing the song. And she knew he was her fire and her life." The King's brows are hiked up, and a small smile is playing on his lips. His voice is soft and low, "Because he was not grumpy anymore?" "No, of course not," she looks at him and frowns, "She loved him even though he was so grumpy. Have you not been listening, my lord? She knew he was the one because she heard the song in her heart. The song that only she could hear and only he could awaken. Do you know the song, my lord?" Thorin smiles, and your heart flutters. You know the smile, small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, his curved lips twitch, and he lowers his eyes, "I know the song, ursmim."

Mira turns her head to you, she always knows where you are, and speaks to you as if you were the part of the conversation from the start, "Emel, I found the magical bed you were telling me about in your stories." The King's eyes fly to you, and you can see a strange emotion flash through his features.

"Good morning, my lord. I hope she is not tiring you." "Morning, my lady, of course she is not. She is entertaining me with the fairy tales she apparently knows from since she was a child," there is light-hearted mockery in his tone, his eyes are smiling, and you suddenly feel alarmed. You did tell her a lot of tales of a free-spirited princess and a cantankerous but noble king.

"And this bed is almost as majestic as the one from your tales, emel, look at it," Mira sounds very pleased. You obediently give the bed a look over, and you realize you are avoiding looking at the King. And then you notice the room, and your breathing hitches. Everything in it is exactly the way you left it seven years ago, at least as much as you can remember. You see your desk, papers and quills still in the same places, small pots of herbs on the windowsill, and something tells you if you look in the dressing room you will still find two wardrobes there. You look at the King in confusion, and you see he is surveying your reactions.

Almost without your will, you make a step to the desk and see your own drawings scattered around its surface. Heady blush spills on your cheeks and down the cut of your dress, you had always thought they were so mediocre they should not be seen by anyone but you. And also, most of them depict the King, your sentimental ogling of him etched on the parchment, and you feel acutely embarrassed for the young enamoured girl, bending over her desk, again and again depicting the beloved face.

And then you shake your head and chuckle. You have not drawn since then, and now you think they are perhaps not that bad. You pick up one and look at the King's face. Frowned, heavy black brows drawn together, stern line of the lips, and you remember the day. Scouts brought alarming news from the North, he was sitting in his study, you were pretending to read in the corner, and piercing love grasped your heart. And then he lifted his eyes and asked for your opinion. You were so shocked by it that it took you a few moments to answer. Your judgement was heard and accepted, and you felt so very proud that day.

You realize the room is silent, Mira is gazing at the green canopy above her head, the King's intense eyes are on you. You put the drawing back and turn to them. "I think, guren, we should let the honourable King rest and perhaps find some breakfast." "She does not disturb me in the slightest, but you do need to eat, both of you." He stretches his hand to her, and she puts her delicate palm into his fingers. "I will come back after the meal, honourable King." You open your mouth to scold her for her insolence, but he smiles to her, "Do not forget about me, ursmim."

_Little flame… _She seems to have accepted the moniker, unlike you she loves her flaming locks, and nods to him. Then she jumps off the bed and heads for the door. "Let us go, emel, you do need to eat. You will be much less distressed after your favourite apple tea." She sounds so much like her father that you laugh. "I am coming, my heart, just wait for me in the dining hall. I need to speak with our honourable host for a moment." She nods and lets the maid escort her to the passage.

You make a few steps to gather your thoughts and then turn to him. His face is expressionless, lips set, eyes cautious. And suddenly you do not know what to say. Instead, you are studying his face, noticing the differences, lines harsher, as if it were possible he looks even more stubborn and conceited than all those years ago. While talking to Mira he was the Thorin you knew was there, underneath the temper and the arrogance, but this very instant you see the dark and menacing King Under the Mountain.

He speaks first, "I have to thank you for saving my life yet again, honourable healer." The old title makes you cringe, "I do not serve anymore, my lord. I am a midwife now." "Where?" His tone is demanding, as if he has the right to question you. You sigh, talking to him suddenly does not seem as such a sensible idea. You hardly know him now, it has been so long.

"Gondor, Ithilien. Just a small practice, the lands are not safe these days, not so many women choose to bring children into this world." He nods, a familiar slightly tilted nod of his. Everything about him scrapes on your consciousness, memories mix with the differences you notice, darker, harsher tones, and you realize you are holding your back very straight.

"And your husband? Back to the service of a ranger, I presume?" You shortly wonder how much he is aware of and what is the point in his questioning, something tells you he has received that report all those years ago. You nod and shift your eyes to the window. You have always loved Spring in Erebor, the awakening of the nature, small streams of meltwater running through the streets, children and birds loud and drunk from the first waves of warm wind.

"When did you wed?" His tone is still curt, and you look into his eyes. "We have not, it never came to it. Life had other arrangements for us." You think of the cold brutal grief over the loss of your son and the months of numbness that followed. You gave up your periwinkle dress and never spoke of the wedding again. You remember the dream you had, the white velvet wedding dress of the Dwarven cut on your body, and then you shake your head.

"I shall leave you to your rest, my lord. If you wish, I can return later." He is giving you an indecipherable look. And then he nods, "Perhaps, after your meal you can come over with your daughter. She promised me the continuation of her tale of the swan princess and the lonely king." You feel blush on your cheeks again, there are so many details in those stories the King would find familiar. Judging by the mischievous glint in his eyes, he already has. You never expected him to hear any of those tales.

"Perhaps," you choose not to antagonize him, you are still not certain who the person you are talking to is, "I assume we will be leaving tonight, my lord, but I would not want to exhaust you, you need to recover." "The poison is gone, now it is but a flesh wound." And suddenly his voice is low and velvet, and you lift your eyes at him, "Give me your hand, Zundushinh..."

You see his face, emotion suddenly openly displayed, lips twitching, blue eyes burning, and something pulls you to him, you take a step closer and stretch your hand. A golden spark jumps between the tips of your fingers an instant before they touch, and his hand suddenly grasp yours with crushing force. He jerks you to him, you fall into his arms, kneeling on the bed at his seated body, and he crushes you in tight embrace.

"You came to me again, and saved me again, zundush, you cannot deny it, you cannot… not now..." You hesitate but only for an instant, and then your wrap your arms around him, and hide your face into his neck. A loud sob escapes your lips, and you are pressing yourself into him. It feels like death, it feels like coming back to life, his heat, his smell, the sensation of his hard scorching body, memories bursts behind the lids of your closed eyes, old and new sensations erupt in your body, and you hear the song. Your heart is elated, every nerve in your body is trembling in the thrill and ecstasy, welcoming his touch, celebrating your return to him.

And then his hands cup your face and he is kissing you, and you are returning the kisses, hands buried in his ebony strands, one of his arms around your middle, another one painfully grabbing handfuls of your quickly unbraiding curls. He tastes as life itself, intoxicating, flooding your senses, and you press closer, straddle him, one of your hands sliding on his shoulder, your palm slipping under his tunic on his nape, nails digging into his skin, and he moans into your mouth.

And just as suddenly you push away from him, scamper off his bed, not yours, not anymore, not for many years, you fall on the floor, swirl, jump up and away from him, press your back to the door. You grab handfuls of your hair, and your chest is heaving in sharp painful breaths, "What have I done?! What have I…? Oh Maiar, how could I?.." He tries to get up off the bed, but then he hisses and leans back on the headboard with an oak tree carved in it and a small bird singing on its branch. He is pressing one of his hands to his side. You see a blood stain blooming on his shirt, and you hate yourself hundred times more.

You press your palms to your face. "Oh Maiar, what have I done?!" "Zundush..." His voice is raspy, and you drop your hands, "No, no, do not talk to me, it is all my fault, how could I?! I am a married woman, I have his child, how could I?!" You bite into your bottom lip and taste blood. Good, anything is better than the taste of the King's lips on yours.

"We are leaving immediately, I am leaving… We shall never speak of this… You shall never see me again..." You need to run, you need to save whatever you have left of your family. But he jumps out of the bed, his shirt quickly soaking with blood, and he step ahead, presses you into the door, and you whimper, pushing your palms into his shoulders. He is snarling through his teeth, "You are not going anywhere! I am throwing your lover out of Erebor, and you are staying here." He slams his palm into the wood of the door above your shoulder, and you return to your senses.

"Thorin, what are you talking about? Listen to yourself! It was an accident, a snag, just some old memories returned, and you are grateful, I saved your life..." "Shut up, woman, do you not understand anything?!" He growls at you, and you shrink back into the door. "Your magic told me everything, you love me and desire me just as before, and you will stay, I am taking you back, no matter what happened."

You open your mouth to object, and he rudely grabs your chin with his large palm and claims your mouth.


	11. Chapter 11

You thrash in his arms, and you are not a scared young lass from Dale, you are a ranger's wife, you press your palm into his wound with trained precision and twist out of his arms. He growls from pain and ire. "Do not dare doing it ever again, I am not your property, Thorin Oakenshield. I do not what harlots you have dealt with all these years, I will not be..." He roars in rage and grabs your shoulder. "Harlots?!" He shoves you forcefully, and you tumble on his bed. "I have not touched a woman since you left my house! How fast have you spread your legs after leaving me?!" He is pressing you in the sheets, his knee between your legs, one hand on your hip, another controlling your shoulders. You jerk and try pushing him off. You still cannot believe it is happening, you are more confused and frightened than enraged, and you are not fighting to the hilt.

He pushes one of his hands up your skirt and cups between your legs. You try hitting him with your knee, but he is too large, too strong. He snarls and bites into your neck. It hurts, and you cry out. He grabs the collar of your dress and jerks it, ripping the fabric. He is baring his teeth, and suddenly your body sags, and you feel tears running down your face.

It is not the Thorin you knew, not the Thorin you loved, and it is all your fault. You did it to him. You are still, your eyes on him, and he halts. And then he moves off your body, steps away, and he is pallid. The right side of his shirt is crimson with his blood, there is blood on his hand, he is disheveled. You sit up on the bed, there is blood on you too, and you pull the collar up, covering your breasts, visible through the gauzy undertunic.

"Mahal help me..." His voice is hollow, just like his eyes. He sways and heavily leans on the wall. His legs give in, and he slides on the floor. You quickly glance at the door, if you run now, he will not have time to intercept you. Panicked thoughts thrash in your mind. How are you to walk through passages? And Amrod… How are to explain the way you look? He will kill Thorin… Any other time you would doubt the result of such fight but the King is weakened…

You look at him. He is sitting by the wall, his head dropped into his hands, and you cautiously get up. "Your clothes..." His voice is rough and choked. "You still have your clothes in the dressing room… I will not touch you anymore, you have nothing to be afraid of… But if you want to conceal it, you have clothes to change into..." You are staring at him.

He lifts his eyes at you, they are pained and remorseful, there are tears pooling in them, he looks completely broken. "I will not ask for forgiveness, I will never deserve it… But he will try to kill me, and I do not think Erebor will take it well. Mira needs her father..."

You can go to the dressing room, find a simple dress, change quickly, wash off his blood from your hands and legs, take your husband and daughter and leave Erebor. You can go back to your small clinic in Ithilien and to your books, you can play with Mira in your garden and cook dinners. You can forget about the King Under the Mountain, you can pretend that nothing happened and forget what it felt like to kiss him after seven years and how your blood sang. That is what a good wife and a decent person would do.

But you realise you are neither. You walk up to him and kneel in front of him. You cup his face, his eyes widen in astoundment, and you lean in and press your lips to his. You feel his tears on your cheeks, and you deepen the kiss. You love him, you always have, and you forget about anything, your hands tremble from the painful desire, and tenderness, and yearning, and lust. His palms lie on your shoulders, it feels as if he is going to halt you and push you away, but you open his lips with your tongue, he gasps into your mouth, his hands clench, hurting you, and you welcome the pain, you do not deserve anything else.

He pushes you on the floor, his large body covering you, the weight both familiar and thrillingly, astonishingly strange, you arch into him, your legs wrap around his waist, and you moan, pushing your hands in his hair, the thick silky waves run through your hands, and his hot mouth is as demanding and luscious as you remember, and a thousand times better, and your head is spinning. His lips are on your throat, and he is feverishly murmuring in Khuzdul. The words are love, and lust, and rage, and blame, and guilt, and you drop your head back.

He jerks your drawers off, and you unbuckle his trousers. You push them lower, and he thrusts in you. You cry out, he is so large and hot, and you forgot the explosive ecstatic sensation of it, and you sob and chant his name. He starts moving into you, ravenously, greedily, no savouring, mashing your body, crushing you, and his hips jerk several times, and he spills his seed. You whine in disappointment, you want more, you do not wish for it to end, and he is breathing heavily, his forehead pressed in your shoulder. You remember that he always recovers fast, and your heart clenches. Once his mind is clear again, you will have to face him and the crime you have just committed. Just you, it is all you, you are the one to blame. Tears come, they roll off your face, to your temples, into your hair, and you suddenly remember your first night with the King. He fell asleep, his cheek pressed to your chest, and you were lying in that narrow inn bed, and the tears like these, hot and desperate, were running, burning your skin, the same mixture of love and pain tearing at your heart.

He takes a deep breath in and lifts his head. His eyes are cautious and vulnerable, he is obviously expecting to fight you on whatever you say now. But you are silent, you do not know what to say. He lifts on his elbows and his member slips out of you. "Zundush..." You shake your head and try to move his heavy body off you. He does not yield. "Zundush, we need to talk..." You are shaking your head again, "No, we do not. I need to go… You need to let me go..." You are suddenly suffocating, and you panic, gasping for air and pushing him off. He rolls off you, and you rush into the dressing room.

You vomit in a chamber pot in there, your body convulsing, ache running through your joints and abdomen, and then you push yourself to get up unsteadily. You wash your face and hands, pull off your dress, and wipe your legs from his blood and his semen. You open the wardrobe, everything is where you left it, the smell of dried flowers and dust hits your nose. You take the dress you wore for your herb gathering trips and pull it over your undertunic. Your drawers are still on the floor of his bedchambers and you need to go back there. You press the heels of your palms to your eyes and will yourself to calm down.

You return in the room, he has taken his shirt off and is trying to put on new bandages. Since he has to twist his upper body to encircle himself with gauze, his wound keeps opening and spilling more blood. You walk up to him and take the bandage out of his hands. Without looking at his face, you deftly tend to the wound, feeling his heat and his intense eyes on you through all of it, and then you step back. He is standing in front of you, his chest heaving, and you feel heartbroken. How many times have you seen him in your dreams in exactly such pose? Open and vulnerable, within the hand's reach, yours to keep.

You lift your eyes at him and speak decisively, "Thorin, forgive me, what I did was deplorable." He is silent, his eyes roaming your face. "I have made a mistake, I had no right… I just could not..." "You have nothing to ask forgiveness for..." His voice is quiet. "I do. I have betrayed my husband, and as I can see now, I have exploited your feelings for me. You do still love me, do you not, Thorin?" You look into his eyes, and he looks panicked.

You nod, you do not require an answer. "Because I still love you, and I always have," he makes a small movement towards you but you lift your hand halting him, "But I have no right to. I am another's wife, and I swore to be faithful to him. And now I broke my vow..." "You are not married!" "Wedding is just a formality. Seven years ago I promised him I was his, I chose him over you, and now I have broken my promise. I will leave Erebor now and on our way back I will tell him the truth. It will be up to him to decide whether he will allow me to stay with him, or not. And again, I am asking you to find enough generosity in your heart to forgive me. I should not have..." Your voice trails away, and you finally look at him.

All through your speech he was quiet, and now his face is unreadable. He is taking slow measured breaths in, and when he speaks his voice is dead, "You do not even consider staying with me." You morosely shake your head. You are Alfirin, a ranger's wife, and you will face any punishment for your crime. "Then you do not have my forgiveness. Get out." The pain slashes across your abdomen, and you clench your fists. You nod and leave his bedchamber. On your way out you pick up your drawers from the floor. You do not turn back to see what emotions are playing on his face.

The bedroom is empty, and you rinse your body and change quickly. You are calm, almost numb. You have your plan, and you have your determination. You send a servant for Mira, she has probably finished her breakfast by now. She comes back, and you start packing for your return trip. In the middle of your packing Amrod returns into the room. He silently joins you two, and two hours later you mount your ponies and set on the road. You do not say goodbye to anybody in Erebor.

The first day's travel passes in silence, and when the evening falls, you tuck Mira in, wrapped in warm blankets, and you sit on the log near Amrod. You are resolute but you do not know how to start. He chuckles, a joyless hollow sound, and turns to you, "I have to say, seeing you tongue-tied for once is refreshing, Alfirin." You are not looking at him and poke the burning wood with a stick. And then you start talking. In detached emotionless tone you tell him of your transgression and inform him that it is for him to decide how the two of you are now to proceed. You are willing to take any punishment for what you did, including leaving him, but you tell him you do not wish it. You ask him to let you stay by his side, and then you finally look at him.

His face is wan and somewhat vacant. And then he looks at his hands, his fingers intertwined, and his tone is astonishingly calm, "I did not expect you to come back to Ithilien with me, Alfirin. So in some manner I am almost grateful. You are going back, so I still have Mira, you obviously would have taken her away from me, had you chosen..." He chokes on his own words, and the narrow, long-fingered hands clench. "I will allow you to stay, and you will never speak of it, Alfirin. When I want to, I will raise this subject. And you will swear to me you if ever you are to have another dream of the King Under the Mountain, you will forget it with the first ray of the sun." You feel tears running down your cheeks, and you nod. He is still not looking at you. "I do not know what I feel right now, Alfirin. I do not know whether I will be able to share my bed with you, or my house, or my life, but right now you can continue travelling with me." He lifts his brown eyes at you, and the amount of pain in them makes you gasp. His composure wavers, and he rasps out, "I did not expect you to… I never… How could you?.." He jumps on his feet and disappears in the bushes.

You hide your face in your palms and cry, silencing your sobs biting into the flesh of your hand, not to wake Mira up. He returns in the morning, looking so much older and endlessly tired, and the journey back to Ithilien starts.


	12. Chapter 12

You are sitting on a fallen tree by the river, Mira silent by your side, both of you following the stream with your eyes. Your return travel to Ithilien is a stark contrast to the frantic rush to Erebor, when you would only have one goal in front of your eyes, one burning desire, you hardly slept and hardly ate. There is silence, and there is numbness, both you and Amrod are shell shocked, pondering and avoiding each other. He often leaves camp, you are certain he is wandering around, he would never leave Mira and you without protection, but he never sleeps near you or shares your meals.

Mira is quiet. Being an obedient child in general, these days she is just a shadow, following you around, complying with everything, her blue eyes fixed on every move you make. She is neither scared, nor sympathetic though. With the wisdom uncharacteristic for her age she just accepts the grief of the grown-ups, she is just doing her part.

You look at her sideways, she is making a flower crown, and you notice small flowers of purple columbine to prim up in her fingers. Her magic is natural, organic, unlike you she does not have to make an effort, but flowers enliven and birds sing around her. She lifts her eyes at you and smiles. And a piercing painful thought comes. Amrod was right, she might as well be Thorin's. The same shade of colour in her irises, deep, ever changing, thick dark lashes, and the intensity of her gaze is reminiscent of the eyes of the King Under the Mountain. _Have you been thinking of him carrying her under your heart, Alfirin?_

Of course you were. You are always thinking of him, your heart forever belonging to him, seeing him has only confirmed it to you, you have been lying to yourself for years. And you ask yourself, why did you leave? He offered you to stay, he would have accepted Mira, and Amrod would have set on the road again, like he always does. He was not expecting you to go home… Why did you leave Erebor? Why did you choose the torturous future with Amrod against Thorin? You search and search for the answer, but you cannot seem to comprehend your own heart.

"Bow your head, emel." You turn to her and let her put the flower crown on your head. "You are very lovely today, emel. There is the light and the glow in you. Very beautiful," she strokes your cheek, and you smile to her.

She goes back to her side of the log and start making some intricate pattern on the ground with leaves and twigs. And you suddenly remember how horrible you felt when carrying her under your heart. You lost so much weight through your parturiency that even seven months along you were more slender than before you conceived her. After two months of complete numbness and apathy after the loss of your son, Amrod offered you to try for another child. You stopped taking your herbs and four months later you received the happy news.

For nine months it was all nausea, pain and debilitating dread for you. You could not eat, everything tasted appalling, smells were torturing you, your bones and joints ached, the bigger she grew the less strength you had left. You spent the last few weeks in bed, and that is where you delivered her. The most severe of pain had been tormenting your body for four days, and you only hoped you would give your life in exchange for hers. Enna, your friend and midwife, told Amrod to prepare for the worst. Your blood would soak the sheets so fast that it would drip on the floor. When Mira was finally born, your body was in such state that both you and Enna agreed that it would never bear another child. For a few weeks you were so weakened that you had to hire a wet nurse to sustain your daughter.

Mira would sleep in bed with you, and at night you would lie awake and look at her. She was your miracle, your only hope, but dreams would come, other children, different children, with the same blue eyes, running around you, their laughter, two boys with dark hair, another one with your green eyes, a girl destined to grow into a renown beauty, and you would wake up gasping for air, clenching at the sheets.

You are looking at her now, a delicate jawline, a small pink ear, she keeps on tucking her curls behind it, and you thank Valar for her. Since she was the only one for you to have, you could not have wished for a more perfect child. She lifts her eyes at you, and the two of you have your usual silent conversation. You two do not need words to express your love and devotion for each other, your understanding and your trust.

You get up and smooth your skirts. "Time to go back to the camp, Mira. We should eat and continue our trip." She nods and picks up a leaf. "Can I ask you a question, emel?" "Of course, my heart." "It is more of a concern," she is twirling the leaf in her fingers, and you can see it is oaken, "I am worried about the grumpy king. How is he going to go on living without his swan princess?"

You shudder but then understand that she is only talking about your tales, "He will not have to. Do you not remember how the story goes, Mira?" Your voice wavers, and you sit back on the log. "She left him and went to search for her magic, but then he came to her, he found her pond in the green fields and round hills far, far East, and he convinced her to go back to his woods, and she understood that she does not want to live in a glassy pond anymore and that she wants to live in his dark forest."

She is pondering your answer and then shakes her head. "But not this time. She did not return to him this time, emel." You are taking a slow breath in and tell yourself she cannot possibly be talking about you. "What do you mean, Mira?" She mournfully looks at the leaf in her hands, "I have not finished the story to King Thorin. I was supposed to go back to him after breakfast and tell him how the grumpy king went and found his swan princess in the green hills of the East, but we had to leave so fast..." She looks at you, and you see tears in her eyes, "And now he will never know..."

She moves and presses her face into you. Her shoulders start shaking, and you just cannot do it anymore. Sobbing erupts from you, and you hold her to yourself. You are crying, for yourself, for Thorin, for Amrod, from pain and from guilt, and from finally understanding that it was fear that made you abandon the man you love.

You were so scared of what you saw in Thorin, you felt you had broken him then, seven years ago. Had you thought of him, had you imagined what it was like for him? Of course you did, but with acute jealousy you thought he would find a wife or a lover, he would father children, he would hate and despise you, or even worse that he would not give you a smallest of thought and forget an unassuming skinny healer from Dale that was in his bed all those years ago. You did not expect to see your drawings and your clothes and your ribbons, you did not expect to see your rooms looking as if you just stepped out for a short trip to Dale.

You did not expect to see a bitter, dark, violent man, who almost forced himself on you, a hardened heart, harsh lines around his mouth, the scowl and the hunger. You got frightened, and you fled, you hid in the shelter of the familiar, you ran back to Amrod, and you made the wrong choice. In panic and frenzy, the warmth of Thorin's body still on your skin, you made a mistake. You told yourself you are doing it for your daughter, you told yourself you are doing it out of your duty and your loyalty to Amrod, but you were just a coward.

You wipe your tears and slightly move Mira away from yourself. "Someday, we will visit the honourable King Thorin again, and you will finish your story. You will tell him about how the grumpy king came to the princess and she was sleeping, and when she woke up she found him sitting in her chair, grumpier than ever, and she thought she must have hit her head and was seeing things." Mira laughs through tears, it is her favourite part. You make a flabberghasted face, and she laughs harder. "She is looking at the chair and then she starts touching her brow," you imitate the movement, "surely she hit her head, there must be a bruise somewhere, he cannot be sitting in her chair! But there he is, frowning and pouting, like a boy who lost a game of rings," she is nodding vigorously, "And then he asks in a grouchy voice, _What are you still doing in this pond, swan? Are you not supposed to be coming home to me right now? It is already Spring, you are supposed to be returning to my forest._" Mira chimes in, "And she says, _I am rather comfortable in my pond, honourable grumpy King, I wish to remain here. Return to your dark trees and forget your bird._" You smile, "And what happens next, my heart?" Her tears forgotten, she smiles, her eyes gleaming, "And then the grumpy king start stomping and screaming, and blabbers all his feelings for her, and she understands that he truly loves her and will never love another. And although her wings are white and feathery, she understands she belongs in the dark forest!" Mira jumps on her feet and starts swirling, happily laughing, "And then they kiss! And she hears the song in her heart once again!" She is exuberant, and you laugh looking at her.

She abruptly stops and looks at you, "Perhaps, you do not understand the story, emel," you look at her is astoundment, "Have you ever thought that maybe the king was so grumpy through this whole time because he was worried that she would fly away one day? Maybe had he always been certain that she would not leave him, he would not have been so grumpy and would not have locked her in a cage and treated her so badly?" You are staring at her, but her attention shifts again, and she picks up a flower from the ground.

Amrod calls her from the fire, and she runs to him. You see her jump into his arms, he is twirling her, and one of the rare smiles adorns his face. Her words are still ringing in your ears, and you do not find any strength in yourself to get up and walk back. _Had he always been certain that she would not leave him, he would not have treated her so badly… _What have you done?

The following days drag, the monotonous landscape of Eastemnet slowly moving in front of your eyes, and you are lost in your thoughts. Calm on the outside, you feel bedraggled and uneasy inside. The further you find yourself from Erebor, the more you question your choice. And once you let yourself doubt it, the memories and confusion return. Did you make the right decision when you left Thorin and chose Amrod? Did you make the right decision when faced with the same choice seven years ago? Were you even right to leave Erebor that very Spring? You feel panic and apprehension rise in you, more and more often, something in you brewing, making you distressed, and every step you make, away from the Lonely Mountain, feels like another mistake, one after another, and at some point you cannot help it anymore.

You jump off your pony and twirl on the same spot. You grab handfuls of your hair and suddenly golden glow bursts out of your body. You are like a torch, you lift your arms to the skies, your magic bursts up in swirls and sparks, and you hear Mira laughing and clapping joyously. You scream into the sky and then fall on your knees.

You lift your face and look at Amrod. Defeat and pain are written all over his face, and you close your eyes. And then you feel Mira's small hands cupping your face. Your eyes fly open, and you meet her blue irises. "Everything will be alright, emel. Everything will unravel in its own time." She is smiling softly to you, and you nod.

"And that was very pretty, emel, can you do it again?" You chuckle against your own will. "No, my heart, I cannot, I am not even doing it, it is not something I can reign." She tucks your runaway curls behind your ear in the imitation of the caress you give her and pats your shoulder. "Get up, emel, we need to go. And besides it is not safe to sit on cold ground."

By the time you reach Ithilien, you are certain that there can not be any doubt, and your suspicions are true. You are with child.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Dear ****Guest A.****, and all of you as well, my lovelies, **

**Re: Thorin not getting it on with anyone else but When all through these years: Well, I think it just wouldn't work with this particular Thorin, in this universe Dwarves bond for life, and he made his choice. It's just our Wren/Alfirin has such severe abandonment issues from her horrible childhood that she constantly thinks that he would eventually dump her and find himself a lovely Dwarfette from a noble family :) **

**BUT! If you want a dark, experienced and lecherous Thorin (don't we all from time to time:) I refer you to ****RagdollPrincess**** and her magnificent fic "****What The Future Brings****." It is awesome! It is Kili-centered but there is plenty of Thorin and his majestic cock in there, and it is so gooood! :P The fic, not the cock, although… :P**

**PLUS! I am happy to announce that she was kind enough to like my Wren (and not pair her Thorin with anyone else, but I assure you the queue was endless:), and we are planning to cooperate on a sequel to her story. Her Thorin (oh my ovaries, he is delicious!) and slightly different from the original (but not as different as Alfirin) Wren! **

**Before the sequel I'll be posting an introductory fic, but honestly, you don't want to miss her story! Check it out, it's amazing! Our cooperation story will consist of two-shots, Kili + OC on her side, and hunky, sexy as fuck Thorin + smarty pants Wren on mine. Hopefully by then I'll be out of my depression corner because my babies in that story are to be nauseatingly happy together and legging it off like bunnies :)**

It takes a few days to set back into your routine, you clean the house, restock the pantries, Amrod returns to his service. All through this time you are rigid, quiet, tense. You go see Enna, and she confirms your suspicions. She is shocked, both of you were certain it was never to happen again. She is also very concerned, considering the state your body was last time, there is no possibility for you to carry the child to term, and the longer it stays with you, the more severe the danger your own body is in. You have known Enna since the time you arrived to Ithilien, devastated and lethargic from the loss of your first child, she knows your attitude, the conversation about aborticide does not even arise, but you catch her worried eyes on you.

You are sitting in your kitchen, cutting carrots, and your mind wanders. Since there is no chance for this child to live, is there any point in telling Amrod of it? Or Thorin… The knife halts, and then you realize this is the first time the thought came to you. Before this very moment you have not even thought of who the father of your child is. All you could think is what is to happen to it, how to keep it alive, how to preserve him or her. And immediately certainty comes. It is a son. You drop the knife on the chopping board, and a never known before warmth spreads within you. Strange closeness to your unborn child floods your senses, and you feel awed.

Some little noise seems to stir in your mind, you even turn your head trying to find its source, and then you realize it is coming from within. You listen attentively, and you realize there is a rhythm to this sound. You halt all movement, you hold your breath, and then you hear it. The even, rapid beating of his heart. Your palms fly to your middle.

That is how Mira finds you, frozen in front of uncooked dinner, stunned and immobile, your hands pressed to your flat stomach. You lift your eyes at her and smile. She tilts her head and is studying your face. You pull her closer, embrace her, hide your face into her hair. Slender arms wrap around your neck, and then she strokes your back. "Are you alright, emel?" And you realize that you are, "Yes, my heart, I am happy."

Amrod is absent for four weeks on a scouting expedition, and it gives you time to think. Even when he is home, he hardly appears, sometimes he is missing for a few nights in a row. He spends time with Mira but you two have hardly exchanged more than a dozen words since you left Erebor. You are approaching four moon's mark in your pregnancy, and it is time to let him know.

You are thinking back at the last time the two of you made love. It was the night in Erebor, after you healed the King, in the darkness and silence of the guest chamber. He was tender and slow, it was more caresses and reassurance than passion, you reciprocated, but knew that your heart was not into it, and you two fell asleep in each other arms. You do not take any herbs, since you thought your body was incapable of conceiving a child. And the morning after you bedded the King. The chances are equal.

Every night you lie in your bed, and the never ending circle of thoughts races through your mind. If the child is Amrod's, you are to stay with him. Another child in the house, another child you have to take care of on your own... As attentive and loving as he is towards Mira, he is hardly ever around. Scouting expeditions, patrols, trainings keep him away more than often. It has always seemed favourable for you, you have your own life, your service, Mira… All your world is in your daughter, all your love poured into her, all your devotion given to her. She returns your loyalty and your affection, the two of you coexisting in a blissful harmony. She loves her father, but they are not close. When Amrod is around, he does not disrupt the balance in the house, but his absence is hardly a grievance for the two of you.

Such life has always seemed fitting for you, you would hate to be stranded by a constant presence of another person in your life, in your bed, you cannot imagine waking up every morning in a tight embrace of a man, it must be suffocating. Whenever Amrod was around in these years, you spent the loveliest of time together, reminiscent of the first days of your romance, a whirlpool of dancing, playing, endless small gifts brought for you and Mira, and after hours, passionate loving all over the house. He is very fond of spontaneous tumble in some inappropriate place, the kitchen table, or a window sill, and you often have to tend to purple bruises on your body after his stays. And then he would leave, and your life would go back to its flow, slow and safe.

And then you think back to the years you spent in Erebor, and how different your life was then, and fear clenches on your heart. You never allowed yourself reminisce of those four years, but now the memories flood your mind. Being with Thorin meant being enveloped in him, in his heat, in his passion, in his life. His troubles were yours, his moods affected your days, and every morning you woke up in his crushing arms, his nose buried in your hair, and then he would pull you even closer, and half asleep he would start kissing you, and soon enough clothes would be shed, and his heavy scorching body would cover yours. You were never alone, you were never without him. But you loved it, loved his presence, loved the fire and warmth that seeped through your skin and through your whole existence. You craved it, you could not sleep in the first weeks after you left Erebor. You ran when his presence was gone, your heart was weeping for it, your body yearning for him, and you remember crying in the empty bed, when he would stay in his study late in the evening, and occasionally, more and more often, spend a night in it. You were always cold those last nights before you left. And you felt you would never warm your fingers and feet again.

If the child is his, will he let you return to Erebor? Will he let you live in his city? How will you endure if he decides to place you in one of the rooms in Erebor and marry another woman and father her children, and what will happen to your son? And then you berate yourself, such thoughts are the reason for the calamity that is your life right now! Had you trusted him all those years ago, had you tried to talk to him instead of running, shared your doubts and fears, would you have been by his side still? You do not know, but then you think that you would not have Mira, and this thought does not allow you regret your past.

You think of your belongings preserved and unmoved in his chambers, and tears come. He loved you, had loved you through the years you were absent, and you broke him again. You betrayed him again, and you think of the vulnerable pained eyes he raised at you when you were bandaging his wound. Your fingers grazed his skin, and his body jolted. Will he be happy to find out your mistake bore a wonderful gift or you caused too much pain for him to have anything to do with you, even if there is a babe? You toss and turn, and finally fall asleep. Dreams come, and you get up in the morning, frustrated and even more confused.

Before Amrod's return you go see Enna again, and the visit brings surprising news. Your body seems to be striving, you are healthier and stronger than before, perhaps stronger than you have been in years. Unlike Mira, your second child seems to be large, but your body is coping. You confirm to her that you do indeed have remarkable appetite and do not have any unpleasant symptoms. You are lively, and despite all the emotional turmoil you feel elated. Enna can only shake her head in astoundment. The boy is faring very well and even seems to invigorate your body. You are aware that some women manage to overcome some of their illnesses and weaknesses during pregnancy, but neither of you has ever seen such drastic improvement.

Mira is asleep, it is past midnight, when Amrod opens the door to your small house. You are sitting at the kitchen table, your hands folded on your lap, waiting for him. He drops the backpack on the floor and silently goes to the basin. He washes the grime and dust off his face and turns to you. He gives you the hollow lifeless smirk that you are so used to seeing on his lips these days, and his voice is tired, "What other confession am I to expect now, Alfirin? Have you committed another adultery while I was away?"

You shake your head and look down at your hands again. He heavily sits on another chair and places his large palms on the table. He drops his head, and he sounds almost pleading, "Can we just get on with it, Alfirin? Have some decency to at least tell me everything upfront, there is surely no need to prolong this tension. I am rather tired."

"I am with child," his eyes fly to your face, and his lips half open. Myriads of emotions run through his features, and you see hope, and doubt, and suspicion, and anger. He has an expressive face, his eyes always candid when talking with you, and you remember how you used to appreciate his openness with you, after many years of deciphering slight changes in the stern face of the Dwarven King. You let him think, his mind swift and astute.

He governs his emotions and asks in a gruff voice, "Is it mine?" "I do not know." "Of course you do not..." He shakes his head. Surely he has thought over all the possible scenarios by now. "What are you planning to do, Alfirin?" You sigh, you have prepared for this question, "If the babe survives, I will wait till it is born and will let its father know." That about summarizes it, and he shakes his head again. "So cold, so reasonable… If it is mine, are you inclined to stay with me? I will obviously accept you and your child, since I have no pride left in me. If it is his, you will travel to Erebor and bestow the King with a child, perhaps even an heir..." Something stops you from telling him that you are certain it is a son.

He exhales, and there is an almost smirk on his lips. He leans back on his chair and shakes his head. "What happened to you, Alfirin? It is as if I do not even know the woman who lives with me…" You bite into your bottom lip. He is studying your face, "Or perhaps the woman I thought I lived with never existed." You frown in confusion and look at him questioningly. "I had some time to think about it, Alfirin, and I think of what I saw in you in the Dwarven kingdom. Your fire, your passion, your magic, this is the real you, Alfirin, this is you, not the ranger's wife, not the demure midwife in a simple linen dress..." He gestures at you. "When I met you, Alfirin, your braids reached your waist, the rings and velvet adorned you, and I thought, that is a bird in a cage, I will free her and she will join me in my flight. I was hoping to liberate you..."

"And you did!" You lean to him, but he moves away. "You did! You made me strong, and confident, and brave! I am not afraid to say what I want, to do what I want..." And then you realize what you are saying. He chuckles, "Indeed, Alfirin, that you are not. If anything, you did what you wanted. Answer one question for me, Alfirin, just one question. Do you regret it?"

You wait for your heart to beat twice and shake your head. "That is the answer I was hoping for, Alfirin. It is cruel, heartless, merciless, which means it is true. You destroyed my life, broke my heart, deprived me of my family, and you do not regret it. Because you are and have always been in love with the Dwarven King." You look at his stern cold face, and you have nothing to say.

"Whose child are you bearing, Filegethiel?" You jerk from hearing your old name, and suddenly he jumps on his feet, his hand picks up a kitchen knife from the table in a fluid swift movement, and he presses his palm in your neck, pinning your to the tall back of the chair. You gasp and the only thought thrashing in your mind is to protect your child.


	14. Chapter 14

The blade in his hand presses into your stomach, and before you have time to grasp what is happening, a terrifying golden wave erupts out of your palms, it runs through your whole body, lifting your hair, vibrating and tense. It blasts into Amrod's body, throwing him across the kitchen, his back hits the cupboard, and he falls on the floor, blood gushing out of his broken lips and a bruise on his forehead.

You are petrified, palms pressed to your mouth, still sitting in the chair. He lifts his torso on one arm, and his bloodied lips twist, "I think that answers to my question on the parentage of your child, Filegethiel. And please believe me, I would never hurt you or... the bastard of the Dwarven King, but I just needed to make sure." He gets up and sways. He is pallid, blood running down his face and chin, he is violently shaking.

Mira steps into the kitchen, her eyes twice the normal size, lips trembling. "Father?.." He turns to her, and his face contorts in pain. "Father, you are bleeding!" She steps to him, but he jerks away, and after a moment of hesitation he picks up his bag and strides out of the house. You still cannot bring yourself to move.

Mira dashes to you, and you embrace her. She is shaking, and you stir out of your stupour. You start rocking her, shushing comfortingly, "It is alright, Mira, your father just slipped in the kitchen…" She is shaking her head, and you remember you cannot pussyfoot around the truth with her like you would with any other child. She pushes away from you and looks into your eyes, "We need to go after him, emel, he is in danger!" "It is alright, Mira, he just needs time to calm down. There is no danger." You assume he would probably go to the inn and drink ale all night. It seems to be happening quite often these days. She gets up and starts stubbornly pulling at your hand. "Please, emel, we need to go, we need to find him."

You decide that honesty is the best approach with the child such as Mira. "My heart, your father would not want to see me right now. He is very upset with me, he needs time to think." She stops and looks at you attentively, "Why is he upset with you, emel?" You lower your head. How much can one tell a six year old, even such a remarkable one as your daughter? "Your father knows that I do not want to live here anymore… That I want to live in the Dwarven Mountain…" "With King Thorin?" She interrupts, and you look up to see her face. She is calm, pondering your words now, and you exhale. "Yes, with King Thorin." "Of course you do, you are his swan princess." You stare at her aghast. "Do you love him more than Father?" You are shocked, she does not even question that you love them both. All you can do is nod.

She walks around the table and sits on the chair where Amrod was sitting just a few minutes ago. "So you love them both, but you love the King more. If you go to the Mountain, will you take me with you?" Her tone is astonishingly even, and you rush and kneel in front of her. "Of course, Mira, I will take you with me." "And if I do not wish to go? What if I want to stay with Father?" You feel sharp pain in your chest, but she is right. There is this possibility as well. "Do you, Mira?" "I do not know. I want to live with you both… But since we went to Erebor, I know it cannot be… And I see why you want to go back there, he needs you..." You feel tears running down your face. She cups your face and makes you look into her eyes. "And you need him. And it is important, you never think of it, emel… What you need… You need King Thorin, more than you need Father, more than you need me..."

"No, no!" You cry out and press her into you. "I do not need anyone more than I need you. You are my heart, my life, Mira, no one matters more than you." She embraces you just as tightly, and you two cry in each other's arms for a while. Your mood sways from dark despair over the nightmare you turned your life into, and the ecstatic joy over your new pregnancy.

You sit Mira back into the chair and hold her hands, "I have something I need to tell you, guren. I am expecting another child." She looks at your stomach, being a daughter of midwife she early became familiar with proceedings of propagation. You are studying her face in search of possible jealousy, but Mira is Mira. She smiles to you, and you smile back. You two do not need words. But then her brows draw together, "Whom does he belong to?" _He… _You smile to your miraculous daughter.

"He belongs to us. To you and me. He is my son and your brother, and we will all be together." She nods and places her small hand on the exact spot where a four month old babe in your womb has to be. Her face is soft and tender, and you are looking at her in awe.

And then she suddenly laughs, "He is a very grumpy boy, is he not, emel?" You are not certain whether you chuckle or sob. "Is he, my heart?" "Oh, yes, very much so. And stubborn! Is he going to pull my hair like the neighbour's boy?" She is eyeing your stomach with suspicion now, and you laugh. "I will make sure he treats you with respect, guren." She nods and throws her arms around your neck. "Is it going to be just the three of us now, emel?" Her voice is quiet, and you sign. "I do not know, my heart."

You put her back to sleep, and then you go to your bed. You are lying in the dark, your palms folded on your stomach, and your thoughts rush to the far away mountain. Amrod was right, you are carrying a bastard son of the King Under the Mountain. Should you send him a letter? Should you go to him? You turn on your side and press your face into the pillow. The Thorin you knew would forgive you, for how you behaved, for what you did to him, he would let you live in his city, and he would love your son. But is there anything from his old self left in him? Have you betrayed him too many times?

Another thought terrifies you. What if he decides to take your son away? You have no leverage if he decides to deprive you of your right to see your son. He can easily throw you out of Erebor and close the stone gates behind you. And you realize it goes back to the same old question. Do you trust the King Under the Mountain to open your cards and place your destiny in his hands? But this time it is also the lives of your two children you are gambling with.

The next morning you leave Mira with Enna and her two children and go to search for Amrod. The first two inns do not bring success although he was shortly seen in both of them, you pay his bill in one of them, and in the third one the innkeeper directs you to one of the rooms upstairs.

You find Amrod in bed with three women, all four of them in deep post-coital slumber. You make yourself look at the entanglement of naked bodies for a few moments, it is your doing, the result of your crime. And then you touch his shoulder. The brown eyes immediately fly open, and he is staring at you. For a second panic splashes in his irises, but then his jaws are tense, muscles in knots on them.

"Can we talk, Amrod?" Your tone is soft, and he exhales sharply. He climbs out of the bed, unconcerned with his nakedness, one of the women stirs in her sleep. He pulls on his trousers, and the two of you step out on the balcony. The day is warm, the Fall has not stepped into its rights yet, but you feel the underlying coolness in the wind.

He leans back on the rail, squinting his eyes in the sun. He can drink an immense amount of ale before he gets fuddled, but he always pays for it the next morning. You imagine he is suffering of excruciating headache at the moment. You hand him a flask with water, and he looks at you in surprise.

"Have you decided to poison me for the good measure, Alfirin?" You snort and shake your head. He takes a sip and sighs, "Some of your herbs would also be delightful at the moment." You open your palm with a small sachet on it, and he chuckles. "Always so considerate, always a good wife." His words sting, but they should. To be honest, he is being very moderate. But again, you did not expect lashing out, it is just not in Amrod's nature. His outburst in the kitchen shocked and frightened you at a great extent because he had always demonstrated a very even temper before last night.

"Did you come to tell me you are leaving, Alfirin?" "I came because Mira was worried about you last night, she said you were in danger, I tend to believe her premonitions." He nods, he is aware of your daughter's gift. "And still you waited till the morning," he shakes the content of the sachet into his mouth and washes it down with water. "You threatened me with a knife last night, Amrod. I was not going to risk seeing you before you let your rage out." He chuckles again, "That I did." You nod and try not to think of the three women sleeping in the bed inside. "I paid your bill in the inn by the river." Your tone is mundane, and he almost laughs. "I am grateful."

He rubs his face with his hands. "When are you leaving for Erebor, Alfirin?" You do not know. You would prefer to stay, you are still not certain how to proceed. But he is right, you have no right staying in his house. He is looking at you sideways, and then he sighs heavily. "I can stay in the inn until the next patrol. You can have the house to yourself for as long as you want, Alfirin, just let me see Mira every day until you leave." You are leaning on the rail, "Are you not going to ask me to leave her with you?" He chuckles again, "I am not a very good father, no one in their sane mind would leave a child with me."

You turn sharply, and without thinking you touch his naked shoulder. "You are a wonderful father, Amrod. You did all you could. Considering the service and… And what she is like…" He is looking at your hand, and you start moving it away. His large palm covers it, and his lips twitch. "I was never around..." "Being around would not have changed anything, Amrod, she is just what she is..."

He strokes your knuckles with his thumb. "And you? Would it have changed anything with you?" He is looking into your eyes, and for a second your assurance wavers. You have loved him, you truly have. And perhaps you still do.

But then you shake off the daze and lower your eyes. You are not making the same mistake again. You have caused enough pain for him. You loved him, but you just do not love him enough. Being with him just because you crave love and warmth is the cruelty above any other. You have to face the consequences of the wrongdoings you have committed.

"No, nothing you did could have changed what is happening," you pull your hand from under his, "Because it was never your doing. It is all my fault. I made it happen, I am at fault." You look him in the eyes, and you see tears in his warm brown eyes. "Forgive me, Amrod. Not now, maybe not ever, just remember," your voice breaks and tears run down your cheeks, "I am so, so sorry…" He pulls you into him, and you press your cheek into his skin for the last time.

"Farewell, Alfirin, the flower of the North," his voice is hardly audible, and you nod, you cannot find your voice from the acute grief choking your throat. And then you twist out of his arms, it feels as if he is trying to halt you, but you run out of the room and down the stairs. You step out of the inn and take a giant gulp of air.

You might not possess your daughter's gift but even you can feel the cold premonition releasing its grip on your heart. He might not ever forgive you, but leaving him is the most honest thing you could have done. You are his poison and his doom. You think of the dream you had last night. Of his broken body in your arm, dying from a gaping wound in his side, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His body burning in a funeral pyre, along with Men of the North and Dwarves, and the King silently standing near you. Many years ago you have accepted this other life you seem to see in your dreams, and you know for certain all you would have brought to Amrod is his demise. You turn around and go back to your house. You need to decide what to do next.


	15. Chapter 15

You stay in Ithilien for another moon. You tell yourself that you need to bring your matters to order, hand over your patients, pack your belongings, and even more so you need to give the child growing inside you more time. He needs to be bigger and stronger for the trip to Erebor. You have lost a child before, and no one is more careful than you. You also decide to wait for longer to make sure you do not miscarry. Both you and Enna agree that your son develops slower than a child of Men, you estimate that he will need at least sixteen moons to come to term. But he is large, and unlike with Mira you are already starting to show, although it can still be easily concealed with a loose dress.

Whatever arguments you can bring forward to justify staying in Ithilien, you also know that it is your fear that is holding you back. You do not know what awaits you in the Lonely Mountain, and you are anxious. And at the same time sometimes you feel like jumping in the first possible boat and rushing to the King. You stop yourself and try to reason with yourself, but your heart is fluttering and yearning for him. The child growing in you seems to be strengthening your assurance in your love for him. Even if he does not accept you, you want to be closer to him. For the first time in years you let yourself embrace your ardour and longing for him, and it overwhelms you.

It took you less than two moons to reach Erebor last time, but you had Amrod with you, his experience of a ranger and your determination speeding up your travel. You went by boat and horse back, cutting through plains and sometimes skipping night sleep, taking turns to carry Mira on the horseback. This time you will have to go by a waggon, you are not risking to endanger your unborn child, and you are hiring two former rangers to accompany you. You appraise that you will arrive to Erebor by mid-Winter, having reached the half point of your parturiency.

The first two weeks after your last conversation with Amrod, Mira goes to see him every day in the inn he stays at that time. You ask Enna to accompany her. Even without discussing it, both you and Amrod seem to agree that you should not see each other. Enna tells you that he looks good, and you exhale in relief. Mira returns happy after these meetings, always with a small gift, seemingly unaffected. At the end of second week, when Enna tells you that Amrod is leaving for another trip, you carefully inquire from Mira whether she wants to go to the Mountain with you or prefers to stay with her father. She gives it a thought and says in her usual dreamy tone that she owes the King Under the Mountain the continuation of her story. The next time she goes to visit her father you suddenly decide to accompany her.

Amrod is sitting on a bench in the common room whittling a figurine of a puppy. He lifts his eyes and hike up the brows. You stop by the door, feeling bashful, but he smiles and beckons you with his hand. Mira runs up to him and jumps on his lap. He ruffles her hair and kisses her cheeks. She is immediately busy with his craft, and you approach him.

"Alfirin, to what do I owe the pleasure?" His tone is light, and a wide smile adorns his face. "Enna told me you are leaving till the next moon, and I do not know whether Mira told you..." "You are leaving in a fortnight, I know." He stretches his hand, and you give him yours. He pulls it and makes you sit down near him. Mira looks between the two of you, and then climbs off his lap and takes her new toy to a table at the other end of the room. Amrod shakes his head. "How does she always know what to do?" You look at your daughter tenderly, "I do not know." His eyes are roaming your face, and then he gives you a thorough lookover.

"You look well, Alfirin, healthy, radiant." You laugh, "The next thing you will say that I have the glow." He chuckles, "Is it not what they say to all pregnant women? Even if they look like a pickled pear?" You laugh. "They better do. The temper of an expecting woman is scarier than an Orc raid." "You seem to be faring well. Better than with Mira." There is an underlying question in his tone. "I am surprisingly healthy and strong, Enna even thinks I might carry him to the term." He visibly tenses, and you bite your lip.

He swallows with difficulty, and you internally berate yourself. You should have been more careful with your words. But he shakes it off and smiles to you again. "A boy?" You nod. "How can you tell? Did you have a dream?" "No, I just know, I sort of feel him. It is hard to explain..." He picks up your hand and turns it palm up. His thumb slips onto the center of it, and he swirls it on your skin. You feel tears rise, you remember this caress even from the time when you still had not chosen to be his, long time ago, in the fields of the Vales of Anduin. Since then that has always been his sign of affection for you.

"You asked me to forgive you last time I saw you, Alfirin," his voice is quiet, "I will give it a thought," he chuckles shakily, "But I need to know something..." You are holding your breath, and he continues the slow movements of his thumb. And then he sharply lifts his face, the warm chestnut eyes pained and vulnerable, "Why do you think we were given those dreams if the future we saw in them was never to come? The house, the tree, our son," you see tears pooling in his eyes, and you press your other hand to your mouth to silence your sobs, "The daughters… Why, Alfirin?"

You throw your arms around his neck and press your temple to his. "I do not know, Amrod, I truly do not know… Perhaps I did everything wrong, perhaps I was to choose a different path, perhaps it was a temptation and I was to overcome it, be stronger, listen to my heart better..." He wraps his arms around your middle in a chaste gesture, "And what was your heart telling you then, Filegethiel, an honourable healer from Dale?" You sob and press your forehead to his shoulder.

"That with you I would be free, I would have the life I wanted, unconstrained and independent, I would be my own woman like I always wished, and that you would always come when I needed you, and that you would never suffocate me, or try to control me..." You move away from him and wipe the tears running down his cheeks.

"It also told me that the other path, the one leading back to the Mountain, would bring me more pain and more struggle, and piercing loneliness at times, and dependency and chains, and that I would rebel and suffer, again and again..." You close your eyes, "But that had been the right path then, Amord, I was just too much of a coward to accept it, and you… You were so wonderful..." He gives out a shaky laugh, and you laugh with him. "You swept me off my feet, you made me feel beautiful, and desirable, and strong… You showed me what it was to be a woman who was so much more than Filegethiel, or Wren, or Zundushinh..." You are looking into each other eyes, and he scoops you and presses his lips to yours. The kiss is passionate, and it is certainly your last one. It is familiar and new, exuberant and heart-breaking, it is bitter and sweet, and you move away from each other at the same time.

You get up and leave the inn. You spend the next half an hour on the bench outside, and then Mira runs out of the doors, carrying a small basket of treats and trinkets, and the two of you head to the house that in two weeks will not be your home anymore.

You venture for Erebor early September morning, the air around you crispy and clear, and you take a deep breath in. Everything is planned and organized, your belongings and supplies carefully packed, the house locked behind you, the key left with Enna. You said goodbye to your friends in Ithilien, and both you and Mira are bundled in furs in a sturdy reliable waggon. Your guards ride on each side of it, and you allow yourself some rest. Nothing depends on you now, and you feel liberated. You place your future in the hands of the Dwarven King, and you prohibit yourself from doubting your decision. You hardly do, strange calmness reigns your mood these days, you are serene and immutable.

The trip passes uneventfully, the path has been chosen wisely, the weather is favourable, and you reach Dale in the evening of a cold Winter day. You stay in the inn you have frequented all those years ago and ask about some of former acquaintances. You know that Thea is traveling East, you still regularly exchange letters. You spend the night and by the noon of the next day you reach the Gates of Erebor.

You send your guards back to Dale asking them to wait till the end of the day, and if you are not to come back you tell them to consider their service complete. You hold your daughter's hand, and a door in the the Gates opens. It has been only eight months, and the memories of your last visit are probably still fresh. The guards of the Gate give you low bows, and you nod decorously. A courtier appears, and you are accompanies into guest chambers.

You refresh, change into proper clothes, and leaving Mira with the already familiar maid, you let a courtier lead you to a parlour adjoin to the King's study. He is informed of your arrival and agrees to see you right away. You are walking through familiar passages, and your hands are starting to shake, and you take slow deliberate breaths. The closer you are coming to the room, the harder it gets to reign the tremours and the nervousness. At some point you ask the courtier to stop and lean on the wall.

You are wearing a layered velvet dress of Gondor cut, fitted bodice ending just below the bust, gathered skirt, long and loosely fitting, hiding your round stomach, with a fur adorned undercoat over it. You are rather bulbous but it can easily be seen as due to all the garments covering you. The only weight you have gained is indeed in your stomach, one can hardly guess you are expecting looking at you from behind, and you are so small in general that so far you managed to conceal your state.

You take a few deep breaths, the servant waiting respectfully few steps ahead, and then you push yourself from the wall, and allow him to lead you into the parlour. It is empty, and you halt in the middle of it. And then you see the King. He is standing on the balcony outside, his back straight and tense, his eyes burning, intense, fixed on you. Soft large flakes of snow fall on his strands, in a stark contrast to the ebony of his hair, and you feel dizzy. You sway, and he instinctively steps closer.

You stand straighter and square your shoulders. You are not a fainting prone lass, you lift your chin and give him a courteous bow. He steps into the room and walks up to you. He is studying you, his brows drawn together, and you speak first, "My lord, I thank you for seeing me so soon." Your voice is trembling, but at least you are not choking on your own words.

He nods and gestured to a chair in front of his table. You sit down gratefully, your feet are tired, and he sinks in his chair in front of you. He still has not said anything, and you stare at your hands. Suddenly the situation seems so comical to you than a ridiculous giggle escapes your lips. And then another one. Soon enough full scale sniggering starts, and you press your hand to your lips. And then you lift your eyes at him.

His face is so pained that you choke on your hysterics. "What are doing here, Zundushinh?" His voice is gruff, and suddenly you perceive all the changes in him at once. His eyes are sunken, he is thinned and exhausted, there is more silver in his hair, even from eight months ago, and there is a deep wrinkle between his brows.

Devastating guilt floods you. And immediately you feel tears burning your eyes. You internally curse your parturiency nerves. You take a deep breath and remind yourself the purpose of your arrival. You open your mouth but no sound comes. In your anguished anticipation of seeing him you forgot to prepare a speech, and now you are grasping for words. He is waiting, his face dark and taut.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Welcome, gemini-6989, to this mad company! :) Thank you for your review and, please, feel free to leave more! :P**

**A/N#2: The mysterious Guest, I have a feeling you are the same person all the time! Thank you for the reviews! Loads of love, my darling!**

**A/N#3: That's it, my lovelies, I'm off to the airport! I'll do my best to continue writing there but you might have to wait for updates after June 1st. But remember, I have SUCH plans for Wren and Thorin in this story, your toes will curl and you will need a cuppa! :D There is a lot to come! Lust, love, pain, anguish, wild sex on the ground, clothes wet from rain, water running down Thorin's dark strands... Oops, spoilers! :P**

He suddenly gets up and comes up to you. He is towering over you, chairs in Erebor fitting your size, and your eyes are on the second button of his doublet. You lift your face and look in his eyes. He is frowning, his glare heavy and scrutinizing.

And then you just grasp him around his middle, wrap your arms around him, and press your face into the velvet of his attire. He audibly gasps and tries to step away from you. Your body, as if unwilling to let him go, follows his movement, and you slip on the floor on your knees. He bends and trying to lift you he presses your upper body into him, and that is when he feels the round firmness of your stomach pressed into him through the clothes. He grows still, and his eyes fly to yours.

You panic and hide your face into his doublet again. "It is yours… Your son… Forgive me, this is not how I should be telling you… I should have prepared… The right words... " He lets go of you and takes a few steps back. You are still kneeling on the floor, and you clench your fists.

You look at his face, it is confounded but you also see rage rising in him. "You came to tell me this..." He is not asking, his voice low and hollow, and you are shaking. "Thorin..." "How can you be sure?" His sharp bark makes you jump up. "My magic. It showed me, he is yours." He is taking deep breaths, and his chest is heaving. And then he turns away. "Get up from the floor..."

You rise and freeze behind him. You see his shoulders shaking but then he governs his emotions. He turns to meet your eyes, his brows drawn together, face unreadable. "Do I understand it right that you left your lover and came here with your daughter?" You nod, worrying your lip. "And if that is indeed my child, what are you planning to do?"

You need to reign your emotions, you need to talk to him, explain that you want to ensure the most favourable situation for all of you, but you are feeling so cold, you are losing your composure, all you want is to press yourself into him, hide in his warmth, find shelter in him… You realize that you have been maintaining your calmness and reserve since the moment you realized the new life was growing in you, and your strength has but run out completely.

You heavily sit in the chair and grasp the edge of his desk to support yourself. "I was hoping I would be allowed to reside in Erebor, or in Dale, and my son would be able to meet his father." "And that is it..." His voice is even and emotionless, and you nod again. "It sounds very reasonable, my lady." He has apparently collected his thoughts, and he is standing scrutinizing your whole appearance.

Finally he pronounces, "I have not realized such child was possible." You cannot look at him, "I have not either. The chances of it… I also thought myself incapable of bearing any more children, not after what happened with Mira..." "What happened with Mira?" You understand he is worried about his child. "Neither of us was to survive. My body could not cope, I was bleeding to death." You seem to notice some movement and raise your eyes. He is standing closer. "How are you faring now?" He is glaring at you almost suspiciously. "I am healthy, I have not been that well for years. And the child is safe, I think I am past half way point." You put your hands on your stomach, and you feel calmer. "He has not moved yet, but he is developing slower than children of Men." He makes a strange noise, and you sharply rise your eyes at him. He is pale, and his lips are white.

"Thorin?" He sways and leans on the desk. You rise and step to him. "Thorin? Are you well?" You move closer, and professional habit pushes you to touch his brow. He is burning. He does not jerk away from your hand, and then he suddenly grabs you around your waist and pulls you into a tight embrace.

He hides his face into your neck and exhales shakily. You embrace his trembling shoulders. Your stomach is between the two of you, and you feel the world to come to a strange definite equilibrium. You stroke his hair and close your eyes. Serene happiness floods your body, your heart sings, and you are molding yourself into his body, enveloping him at the same time, joining and blending your warmth.

The scorching heat of his body, the fresh spicy smell of his skin, everything is suddenly so familiar and so excruciatingly striking and piercing that you shatter. You sob violently, and clawing at him you try to press even closer, though there is no gap between you two, you are whimpering, and the two of you sag on the floor. You end up on his lap, and your bodies intertwine, and it is impossible to tell where one stops, and another starts, and every inch of your bodies touch, and your breathing aligns, and so do the rhythms of your hearts.

You are sitting in the silence of his study, and his hand starts moving, stroking your shoulder blades, and even this small gesture is so familiar that tears start stinging your eyes again. But the hysterics have to stop. You sniff and clear your throat, "We should stop this mawkishness, that is rather undignified for a King..." He snorts into your neck, and you slightly move away and look into his eyes. They are brilliant.

But then you think that perhaps he is running a fever. You press your palm to his temple, and he closes his eyes and leans into it. His skin is searing, but you cannot remember if it is supposed to be that hot. He is a Dwarf after all. "Thorin, are you well?" And then without any warning a wide smile blooms on his face, changing his appearance completely, wrinkles in the corners of his remarkable eyes, irises hiding behind lush lashes, white teeth gleaming. "My leg fell asleep, you are heavy." It takes you a few moments to realize that he is jesting. You stare into his mischievous eyes to make sure you are understanding him right, and then you laugh.

"That is complete poppycock, I hardly gained any weight." He shifts his body, his leg indeed was bent under an uncomfortable angle, and he slightly bobs you in his arms on his lap. "You are heavy, much heavier than I remember." You gasp in feigned shock. "I am not! It is just the babe! I still fit in most of my clothes!" And then his eyes fall on your chest, and he lifts a brow. You have forgotten this gesture of his, and you bite into your bottom lip. And then you lift your chin in mock haughtiness. "Yes, there is more here, but it is understandable. My body is preparing." He chuckles and presses you closer.

Suddenly you realize your position, and you feel bashful. You are blissfully comfortable and warm, but you remember your past mistakes. You two need to be open with each other, everything has to be clear. "Thorin, we need to talk." He is not listening, his eyes fixed on your stomach. Oh, you have not thought of that… "You can touch it, if you want." You keep your tone soft, and you see his brows twitch. His hand, slightly trembling, lies on the undercoat. It has one clasp on your throat, and he pushes his palm through the open front. The warmth of his hand seeps through the layers of velvet and muslin, and you feel his fingers twitch on your round stomach. "It is so firm..." You chuckle, you suppose he has never touched a stomach of an expectant mother before. "The babe is well protected," his tone is reverent.

He sighs and makes a small circular movement on your belly. You shortly wonder if he realizes that he caresses your skin more than anything. And then you berate yourself. You should be grateful that he is not throwing you out of his house. Hoping for more at this moment is an appalling audacity. You look at his face, awed and tender, and your heart clenches. Yearning for him on the road was one matter. Sitting in his arms, his face so close, the soft lips, the thick black beard, the strong neck, his wide shoulder under your hand is a completely different and rather acute torture.

The more confident his movements become, the more anxious you are getting. His presence is affecting you, and you feel panicked. When expecting Mira you were so ill all through nine months, that you honestly started suspecting that the lustfulness they ascribe to pregnant women must surely be a myth. And since the day you have conceived this child, not a single glimpse of carnal desire has flashed through your mind. And suddenly your skin is tingly, and you cannot stop staring at his jaw. And then, you clearly remember how it feels to bite into this one spot and the delicious scraping sensation of the beard under your lips and teeth. You shift uncomfortably, and he lifts his eyes at you. There is a small soft smile on his lips.

"Are you certain it is a son?" "Yes, I am. And Mira has seen him too." His brows hike up. "She is much better at this than I am. I can only hear them, the babes in wombs, she can see ahead. She said he is to be grumpy and very stubborn." You chuckle, and his eyes are wide and stunned. You have to dig your nails into your palms to stop yourself from diving ahead and pressing your mouth to his. His hand halts, and it feels as if it is burning you through the fabrics. You need to put some distance between your bodies before you embarrass yourself and put him in an awkward position as well. Surely the last thing you two need is another moment of passion that both are going to regret afterwards. You need to talk first, build some sort of understanding. And then you berate yourself again, he might not even desire you anymore.

You make a slight movement, and he immediately lets you go. Your body momentarily laments his warmth and the circle of his arms around you, but you press your lips together and get up. You go back to the chair. He stands up too and leans on the table again. You give him a concerned look. He slightly shakes his head, "It is just hemicrania, I get them often. It will pass." You frown, you do not remember him having them. They were always your bane. Although you have not had a single one in the last eight months.

"What are you taking for them? I have some herbs in my sack, I can get..." You start getting up but he lowers a hand onto your shoulder. "It is alright, just give me a moment." He closes his eyes and presses heels of his palms to them. He looks exhausted and thinned. It is especially disturbing since he has always been such a dominating presence, such a force to be reckoned with, turbulent, powerful, menacing. Painful guilt floods you again, you are at least partially to blame for his turmoil.

"Is everything well in Erebor, my lord?" You seem to be back to the old moniker, but it seems fake on your lips now. You are not the same reverent young girl. He seems to notice it too, as he gives you a pointed sarcastic look. "Everything is well, my lady, the Kingdom prospers, the trade is good." There is hidden mockery in his tone, but it is benign. So it is just the King who is in ruins. You sigh, you will never be able to atone for the pain you have brought upon him.

He decisively exhales and straightens up. "You can obviously stay in Erebor, rooms can be prepared for you and Mira. Perhaps in the Northern passages, in the Higher Halls, they get most of the sun." He walks around his desk and sinks in his chair. He locks his hands on the wooden surface and lowers his eyes on them. "For how long are you inclined to stay?" You stare at him agape. Does he think you will leave and perhaps even take his son away at some point?

And then you understand. That is the same old affliction between you two, neither trusts the other not to vanish. But the years have passed not without bringing fruits of wisdom. Or at least some common sense. One of you has to be cleverer. You are silent, stunned by this realization, and he lifts his eyes. The old pain splashes in them, and your heart clenches from tenderness and love. "I will stay in Erebor for as long as you allow me. I am not leaving ever again, if such is your will." He might not believe you now, but you see a small flicker of hope in his blue irises. You have a long way to go but you seem to have just made the right first step.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: My dearest ****Guest****, who commented on "Thorin's Queen," love you! Of course I will continue this story. To be honest, Alfirin is my favourite Wren! She is more mature now, has been through much, braver and more direct in her desires. She is a fighter too! And Thorin here is so deliciously broken and pained. My babies, they are on my mind these days. And the Hobbit/ Star Trek crossover that I am considering… :P Captain John Thorington, USS Erebor :D**

You are finishing your breakfast in the chambers that Mira and you are now occupying. It has been six days since you arrived in Erebor, and you finally feel more grounded, calmer. With it comes boredom. Your days are the same, you two spend most of the time in your chambers, you take your evening meals with the King as you were graciously invited to the first day. So far, besides these dinners you have left your rooms twice to go to the Library. You found out that your friend, Myrna, the Erebor Librarian is currently at home, less than two moons left till her delivery, and you promise yourself to visit her.

You are worried to renew old acquaintances though. You are apprehensive of judgment. You know how you are seen in Erebor. Either as a hero, having saved the King's life eight months ago, or the woman who broke his heart. Before arriving here you had not realized the devastation you caused for him, and seeing him now makes you shrink away in shame. The second day you catch the eyes of your new maid on your stomach and realize that your state is no longer a secret. You expect the news to spread quickly.

You are not mistaken. While you are finishing the second cup of tea, a booming knock is heard at the parlour door to your chambers. You hear loud voices, and the door to your dining room opens. Balin and Dwalin are standing at the doorframe, in their travel cloaks, obviously just having returned to the mountain from some trip. You rise on your feet and smile. The soft linen dress does not hide your round stomach.

Dwalin crosses the room in a few wide strides and suddenly presses you into himself. You have not expected such familiarity from otherwise stern warrior, and you pat his back, chuckling. "Barazninh," his voice is low, and you stroke his upper arm.

"Good day, Master Dwalin, it is a pleasure to see you again," you peek at Balin from behind his brother, "And you, Master Balin, pleasure as always. I assure you, this time my presence here was not caused by any calamity befalling the King." Balin chortles softly, "We have heard of your presence in Erebor upon our arrival this morning, my lady..." "And of my circumstances, no doubt." You smile softly to both of them, and they exchange careful glances. Dwarven civility does not allow them to ask for any further clarification. "Please, join me for a meal." You gesture at the table, and they sit down shedding their cloaks.

The conversation is polite and guarded, but it always is with Dwarves. They tell you the latest news, you inform them that you have come to Erebor with your daughter and no intention of leaving any time in the foreseeable future. You notice slight confusion on their faces. You fold your hands on the table, "I have left my life in Ithilien behind me. Now it is just my daughter and I. And my unborn _inuday_." You do not notice yourself how you slip into familiar words of Khuzdul. You have not used it for years, but it is natural with them. "A son?" Dwalin's eyes fall on your stomach. You nod. They obviously would not inquire of your son's parentage. You leave the explanation to the King, it is his right to choose what he tells to his people.

The meal finishes, and they rise to leave. There is a pause, and you smile into two pairs of warm eyes. You feel your lips tremble, but you will yourself to reign your emotions. Seeing them makes you lament what you had given up all those years ago, the respect and affection of the Khazad, but on the other hand they give you hope that you could still find your place in the Kingdom Under the Mountain.

Two weeks pass, and you carefully renew some of your old friendships. Reserved reticent Dwarves are the perfect environment for you right now, your emotions are hard to keep in check. You are accepted back, if any doubts or questions arise your friends keep them to themselves. The King is a Khazad like no other, he is polite and restrained with you. Both Mira and you join him for dinners in the smaller dining hall, conversation at the table mostly built around Mira's interests. She discusses the Mountain with the King, and he tells her about Erebor in warm, low voice. She asks unexpected, inquisitive questions, and with each day you see more and more smiles on his face. He still seems exhausted and uncharacteristically feeble to you, and you keep your head down during the meals. You try to avoid meeting his gaze, the fierce desire to wrap your arms around him, to try to condole, to comfort him is easier to control when you do not see his pained bright eyes.

Sometimes after dinners, him and Mira stay a bit longer, in two armchairs in front of fireplace, while you pretend to read on a small settee in the corner. Usually during such evenings Mira tells him your tales, and you hide behind your book. Low chuckles rumbling in his chest tell you he recognizes the events and plot twists.

The day your life in Erebor changes you are eating your breakfast in the usual dining chamber adjoint to your bedroom. Mira had finished her meal as hurried as usual, and hardly waiting for your permission she ran away to play with her new friends. In the first few days her nursery maid introduced her to Erebor's younglings, and now she is the heart of their company. Even for Dwarves she is astonishingly beautiful, her giant blue eyes and her mesmeric face as well as her gift draw people to her. You feel proud and with self-deprecating humour you think that you wish you had her charm. Now, more than ever, you could have used being slightly more likeable for the people of Erebor.

You are pensively twirling your spoon in a cup of tea when you feel a sudden forceful kick. Your son, invigorated by the sweet tea and a rather large breakfast you have consumed has decided to let himself be known. And suddenly you giggle. It is such a different feeling from what you had with Mira. That time it was fear, and apprehension, and dread of losing her, your body already thinned out and obviously declining rapidly. This time you rub your stomach and murmur, "Hello, my miraculous boy! Hello, the son of the King!" You naturally speak in Khuzdul, and you receive another kick. You feel the warmth and affection coming from the tiny heart beating in you, and you laugh. Suddenly you feel happy and content with your choice. You do indeed belong in Erebor.

After breakfast you change and decisively head to the King's study. The conversation you are determined to have with him is not an easy one, and you carefully choose your attire. A dark green, velvet dress, of Gondorian cut, soft folds starting under your breasts from under a wide purple satchel clasped with a silver brooch. You braid your hair and style it around your head. With parturiency it seems to grow so much faster. You struggle with it for half an hour, but eventually you are satisfied with your appearance. You look put together and dignified. A courtier comes out to the parlour and invites you in. Thorin is sitting at his table, papers and parchments scattered on it, his face irked and tired. He lifts his eyes at you and gestures at the chair in front of his desk. His face is exceptionally pale today, and you assume he suffers from his usual headache.

"I have come to ask for a favour, my lord," you switch to the old respectful moniker, and his eyes jump at you. He smirks darkly, "And what is it, my lady?" He is mocking you, but you do not bite the bait. "I need work, my lord. I need to be busy, do something. I can hardly be useful in an infirmary these days, but surely there is a place for me to apply myself." He frowns and irritatedly jerks his head. You have anticipated the reaction. "I understand you have more important matters to address, my lord..."

"Of course I do!" He angrily interrupts and pushes a parchment away from himself. "I am governing a people here, my lady," his voice breaks unpleasantly over the moniker, and you slowly exhale. "I have trade to attend to, I have Orcs roaming Southern lands, and even more so I have a pointy-eared bastard of an Elvenking to negotiate with! Just look at this!" He throws a letter towards you, and you pick it up without thinking. It is in Sindarin, not the strongest of the King's languages, and your eyes run through the lines quickly. The tone of the letter is cold and, though polite, obviously apprehensive.

"What have you said in your previous letter, my King? King Thranduil is obviously aggravated." "Is he not always?!" The King jumps on his feet and starts pacing his study. You turn in your chair to follow his movement with your eyes. The King is grouching, "I do not understand what he wants. We exchange cursed letters, again and again, and then the tone changes, and then again, and the pleasantries are so exhausting!" You have known Thorin to be unfavourable towards the Elves, but he sounds as a petulant child and not a King of a whole people as he said just a few moments ago. You reread the letter.

"It is quite obvious from this letter he was expecting you to visit him in the Fall, and he is peeved that you have not." "What?!" The King freezes in front of you. "There was no discussion of a meeting!" You point at a line in the letter. "He speaks of the harvest and the feast they have had with the visitors from Rivendell in celebration of _iavas_, the time of autumn, preceding the time of fading. You were expected there as much as I can gather." He is staring at you with his eyes wide open. "He did not say anything! How was I to decipher his Elvish rattling and gather that they expected me there?!" Suddenly he clenches his jaws and fists his hands. "And I am not a servant boy to run to his cursed forest every time he whistles!" You sigh. "The autumn feast is very important for the Silva of Mirkwood, they worship the time and decorate the King's crown with red berries. It is an honour to be invited to the feast." He growls and plops in his chair. "Well, then they should have said so straightforwardly!" He folds his arms on his chest, and looks even more so like a pouting child.

"Perhaps you could vaguely apologise for your absence in the next letter, my King," he gives you an incredulous look. "Perhaps at least hint on understanding that you might have been wrong?" You are giving him a mollifying smile. "Just to show that you comprehend his frustration and are willing to make a step towards a better understanding between your cultures that are so different but still united by the kindred spirit?"

He snorts in indignation. "Why not write the letter yourself, my lady? You always had better understanding of the cold-blooded forest wimps!" You are giving him a reproachful look. "Or better so, you should go and visit King Thranduil in his shadowy chambers. I am certain you would represent the interests of Erebor much better than I ever could, with my greed for gold and barbarian manners!" And suddenly he halts and gives you an attentive look.

The understanding dawns, and you shake your head. "No, Thorin, no! How would I go? In what role?" But you can see he has set his mind already. Never good news! "I have no official role in Erebor! I used to be your healer, and now I am..." You stutter and grow still and silent. He gives you a dark lop-sided grin. "You wanted work, my lady. Here it is. Be my ambassador to King Thranduil. Write him pleasant letters, pay him official visits, mollify the Elf." "In what capacity, Thorin?! I am not even your mistress!"

Before you can stop yourself, you blurt it out, and then bite your bottom lip. He gives you a heavy gloomy look. "You are a member of my court, the details are none of anybody's concern. Write him a letter, introduce yourself and explain that you are now the official liaison between the two Kingdoms!" He points on the paper clenched in your fingers and then gets up. The audience is over.

Your cheeks are burning, but then you lift your chin and get up as well. "Very well, but I will need a study." "It will be given to you by the end of the day." "And your older correspondence with King Thranduil." "Consider it done." The snark is gone from his voice, and he leans on his desk heavily. You are standing so close that you can feel the heat from his body. Once again you ask yourself if he has always been so hot, or he is indeed running a fever.

And then you are distracted by the view of his neck above the swan collar of his doublet. You see the strong tendons on his throat and the lower edge of his beard, and memories of your fingers and lips sliding on this patch of his skin flood you. You internally curse pregnancy urges, but you can hardly restrain your libidinous ogling. And then you chuckle. Can you be more scatterbrained? You have just been appointed to a terrifyingly unfitting position, and you are fantasizing about touching the King inappropriately.

You look at him and see his brows are lifted suspiciously. "What is the reason for your merriment, my lady?" His tone around the moniker is still acidic. "I am laughing at myself, my lord," you mimic his intonation, and he cannot help but smile back. "Since the babe moved I seem to be rather absent-minded, all thoughts around him." You are still smiling, when you see his face drop. The next expression running across his face is terrifying. It is rage, and hurt, and disdain. "And you somehow considered this unworthy of mentioning?! Am I not his father to know of such things?!" You shy away from his livid face, and he snarls through his teeth. "Do not dare precluding my parental rights!"


	18. Chapter 18

You take a deep breath and unclench the fists you were not aware your were holding. He is indeed terrifying, but you remember yourself. You need to reign the situation, you need to prevent the misunderstanding from intensating.

"I was not aware of how much involvement in my parturition you wanted, my lord," you lower your head, your tone soft and your manners subdued. You need to mollify his outburst before his temper gets the better of him. "I am not concealing anything from you. It only happened this morning for the first time."

He exhales, and mad fire is gone from his eyes. You step closer. "Perhaps, you could try touching it, he might answer to your closeness." Doubt splashes on the King's face. You do not understand his mood, just an instant ago he was livid you were presumably bereaving him of his son's company.

He stretches his hand, and you can see it shaking. The palm is scorching, you feel his heat through the layers of velvet and tulle. A forceful kick into his hand makes him jump up, and you laugh. He is staring at your stomach. A strange elated jolt runs through your veins, and you do not understand yourself how you throw your arms around his neck and press into him. His hands slide around your waist.

"Do tell me of such changes, Filegethiel..." His voice is quiet and shaking. You understand your old name is a sign of hesitant amicability. You do not possess your old name anymore, Zundushinh is gone, but the noble Elven moniker sounds warm on his lips. You certainly prefer it to "my lady." You nod in agreement and move away from him. He is looking at your middle again. And then he frowns. "Does it hurt when he does that?" You laugh. You feel almost ashamed for your joyful mood. You wish you could share it with the pale, aggravated King.

"It does not. It is not yet sensitive. Later on it will become quite a trial," you chuckle, showing that you are partly joking, "After a while there will be no room left for him there, and knees and elbows will start sticking out." You rub the round stomach and see the King's eyes widen.

"Knees and elbows?" His voice is shocked.

"He does possess them, my Lord. As any respectable Dwarf. Well, half Dwarf…" The King seems even more stunned, as if it seemed possible. "And Mira told me his eyes will be blue like yours. And hair black. I am not certain about the beard in early age though, I am after all lacking it."

He gulps. "That is fascinating… And rather unfair..."

"Unfair?" You do not understand.

"You get to experience all this..." He gestures around your stomach. "Know of the changes he goes through, feel him move… And all fathers can do is stand near and hope you will tell us a minuscule part of the magical happenstances..." He shakes his head sadly.

You smile but you know the smile is joyless. You admire his staunch desire to be involved in your expectancy. Dwarves are ardent, almost fanatic parents. Men are not. And then you remember Amrod during the time you were carrying Mira. He was attentive and considerate, but you could see the worry and apprehension on his face. He hardly slept at nights, and you understood he was constantly wondering if he was sacrificing a wife for a daughter. Or perhaps he thought he was in danger of losing both. He was right. The chances for your survival were low. After two moons you packed his sack, and while he was at a training yard you came to his captain and asked for him to be sent to a scouting expedition. You did not need his fear and worry to add to yours. He was gone for three moons and when he was back you asked him to stay in an inn and only visit you occasionally. You needed all concentration and focus to save your child and yourself. You jerk your head to shake off the memories.

You realize that the King is studying your face. When he speaks, his voice is cold, "Should you not know what fathers are like, my lady? How much we crave to be involved?"

"Not all fathers are, my lord." You decide to lighten the mood. "Many run as soon as the news is announced. Female bodies frighten them."

He smirks. "They were not frightened enough not to end in such situation..." It is a dangerous direction of a conversation. You do not wish to think of how you came to become a mother this time. The guilt is so acute that you wake up thrashing at night when the memories come in your sleep.

You step away from him. "I shall return to my chambers now, my lord, but as soon as you are ready to delegate the correspondence with the Elvenking to me, I will start my work."

He gives you a pensive look, his brows hiked up in surprise from your sudden change of tone. He sighs. "Certainly, my lady." He returns to his desk. You nod and head for the door. "Filegethiel..." His tone is hesitant, and you turn to him again. But then he shakes his head again, and you leave his study.

Three days later you are holding Mira's hand and gathering all your courage you knock at the door in front of you. A young maid opens it, and her eyes widen.

"Good day, tell lady Myrna that... honourable healer Filegethiel would like to pay her a visit, if she is accepting guests at this moment." You are so nervous that you are shaking. You feel Mira pressing your hand tighter. "Also, my daughter and I were on our way to the market so we cannot stay long." Thusly, you show that you have your own matters to attend and do not pressure the mistress of the house to accept you. You are giving Myrna a chance to refuse you entrance to her house. Any self-respecting Dwarven lady would.

You are invited to the mistress's bedroom, and you are immediately assaulted with exuberant loud greetings. "Zundushinh!" Myrna is twice as round as you remember her, her dark hair braided around her head, her pregnant stomach enormous. You step closer to the bed, she grabs your hand and pulls you into a bone crushing embrace. It is an unusual amount of familiarity for a Dwarf but you understand she is emotional. And also probably going mad from boredom being bedridden. Inconceivable amount of books is piled around the room.

You introduce Mira, and she immediately climbs on the edge of Myrna's bed. You do not stop her, Mira has an amazing intuition when it comes to social boundaries. She always knows when she is welcome. Myrna's hand flies to the girl's curls. "She is so your daughter, my friend! Would you just look at that!" You chuckle. "And the eyes! What a beauty!" She rubs her stomach and wrinkles her nose. "It is a boy, did you know? Another Nori! The world will surely end." You laugh. The memories of how you caught her and the red haired Dwarf kissing in the library flood your mind. It is a pleasure to mentally return to the old, happy days, at least for an instant.

And then she looks at your stomach, and then her eyes meet yours. You give her a small sad smile. "It is a boy as well."

"And his father?" Myrna is one of the few Dwarves you knew who could overlook social niceties thusly, and that always made you value her friendship more. She is harsh, insensitive at times, direct and honest.

"It is just Mira, my son and myself now, my friend." You sit in an armchair by the wall. "My husband stayed behind in Ithilien. I do not think we will ever see him again." She is silent for a while, and then she nods decisively.

"I am glad you are back to Erebor, my friend." That is the best welcome you could have received. You exhale and smile with relief.

Myrna is showing your daughter some books with colourful illustrations. The maid brings a tea tray and the three of you enjoy it with seedcake and raspberry jam. You have a lot to catch up on, but thankfully Myrna's interests have always only concerned books. You tell her of the libraries in Gondor and Ithilien you had a chance to visit, she tells you of what happened in Erebor in the last few years. With surprising ease you share with her your worry regarding the new position you were appointed at three days ago. She laughs.

"That is a very cunning move on behalf of our King. Obviously you will perform in corresponding with King Thranduil much better than any Dwarf!" Her mind immediately slips to her favourite subject. "Oh, I envy you, my friend, you will have a chance to see the Mirkwood Library! Oh, the ecstasy!.." She closes her eyes and licks her lips. You chuckle and wonder if Nori ever feels jealous and second best to her beloved books and parchments.

"I might not ever visit Mirkwood, Myrna."

"Do not be absurd," she throws a piece of cake into her mouth and chews vigorously, "As soon as a few letters are exchanged, the Elf will want to see you. You are an abnormality, Zundushinh.' She stubbornly uses the name the King gave you all those years ago. "A woman of Men, in the court of the King Under the Mountain. And although we all knew before of your status here, these days everyone wonders." You shift on your chair uncomfortably. Many times a day you thank Aulë for creating his children decorous and reserved. Were it not for Dwarven formalism and ceremonial dignity you would have been interrogated by everyone you would meet and cruelly ostracized in Erebor. An unmarried woman, carrying a child, the King's former mistress, the woman, who broke his heart... Dwarves just accept their King's decision and treat you with respect. You do not deserve your luck. "But enough of the trifle matters, tell me, how is my library these days?" You were right to choose Myrna as your first friend to revisit. You exhale and start telling her what you know.


	19. Chapter 19

A moon later your life settles in a busy but comfortable rhythm. Your days are divided between spending time with Mira and working in your study. You are given a large room in the Northern passages not far from your chambers. There is a large window in it, and your heart clenches when you enter it for the first time. Your desk has been moved to it from the King's bedchamber, small pots with plants cover every possible surface in the room, books are put on the shelves. You walk to the desk and tentatively touch the parchments placed on it. These are the letters and treaties between the two Kingdoms. You look into the drawers. They are empty. Your drawings from seven years ago were not given back to you.

A week later there is a hesitant knock at your door. You allow your visitor entrance, and a wide smile adorns your face when you see Ori. Out of the original company who went on the Quest for Erebor with the King, Ori is the least familiar to you. During the four years you had spent in the mountain, he had always been preoccupied with Balin in their research of Moria. On the rare occasions you had a chance to interact with him, such as his brother's wedding to Myrna, you found him well-mannered and timid.

"Good day, my lady," he is shifting between his feet, and you sit in your chair allowing him to take his seat. He hands you a letter, and you see Myrna's family seal on it. You quickly read through the lines and then lift your eyes at the Dwarf. His distinguished nose is twitching from nervousness, and he is so pale that his freckles stand out on his skin bright and orange.

"Are you aware of the proposition that your sister-in-law makes in this letter, Master Dwarf?"

He hastily nods. "Aye, my lady. She is asking you to take over the library while she is preparing for the birth of her son," his face is momentarily warm and affectionate, like any Dwarf he is elated at the prospect of a birth of a new child, "And she suggests you utilize my knowledge of the library, as well as my physical strength to move especially heavy volumes." He is blushing but is trying to keep his head up.

You give him a soft smile. "I am grateful for the generous offer from your sister by marriage, and I will gladly attempt to at least partially keep her library in order until she comes back. But I must confess I am worried, Master Ori. Surely, you have more important matters to attend than to assist me." He blinks. "And surely your physical skills will be wasted on such a menial task as carrying books."

He straightens up in the chair, his chin lifted high, chest puffed. "I would be honoured to assist you, my lady. And the library is the place I spend most of my time anyway. Master Balin does not need me these days, he is assisting the King with his counsel. Please, allow me to be of help, my lady."

You nod, and you two smile to each other affectionately. And then he blushes furiously and looks down. Two days later you two set into routine. Every morning after breakfast he meets you in the passage leading to the library, and you walk together, conversing. He is a talented storyteller. Once he at least a bit overcomes his shyness, he tells you the stories from the Quest for Erebor. His language vivid and expressive, you can almost see the events he is recollecting. The trolls, the fight in the forges, the battles or just quiet evenings by the campfire... You two debate old Dwarven legends and the Kings of the Past, discuss the intricacies of Khuzdul grammar and pronunciation, and altogether you two are very content with the arrangement.

A week later a dream comes. You find yourself lying on a field, purple and yellow flowers scattered around you, your hair splayed on the ground, the air soft, and warm Summer breeze caressing your skin. You are at peace. You are also aware that you are dreaming. You turn your head and see a Dwarf sitting near you. You recognise him, he is the vision you had after you had lost your first child. Auburn hair, long elegant nose, green eyes, his face with striking, fine features and lithe strong body too narrow for a Dwarf, he exudes nobility and serenity.

He turns his head and looks down at you warmly. "I am glad you came, Zundushinh. I need to talk to you." He has a melodic voice, calm but assertive. You sit up and look into his remarkable eyes. The profile that seemed familiar to you seven years ago finally is recognized. The Dwarf before you is a son of Thorin Oakenshield. You look at the high cheekbones and slanted eyes.

And then you gently touch the side of his face, tears burst out of your eyes, and you sob, "Inudoy..." _My son..._

He nods, "Alanjuz ghelekh, amad." _Good evening, mother. _You cry out and press him into yourself. He wraps one arm around your waist and chuckles. You are shaking, and he gently pats your back. "Do not cry, amad, there is nothing to mourn this time." He moves away, and you look into his eyes, so similar to yours.

"My boy..." Your arms wrap around your middle, and you look at him questioningly. He shakes his head, a glimpse of sadness running through his features.

"No, amad, that would be a different prince under your heart, the heir to the throne of Durin, the first born of Thorin Oakenshield." He suddenly chuckles mischievously, "I lack the conviction and, to be honest, the desire to take such demanding position." You bite into your bottom lip in a nervous habit.

"Will there be others? You said my son is the first born..." He smiles again, his lips so alike his father's curving up in an impish smirk.

"If you do everything right, amad, you will have to deal with a handful of little Oakenshields." You press your palms to your burning cheeks. "Not that this topic leaves me undisturbed, amad." You cannot help it and join him in his chuckling. His face grows serious. "I have come to talk to you, amad. You have to give me a promise."

"Anything you need, ghivashel." He halts, and you see his eyes fire up.

"Ghivashel… You did call me that once…" You think you see tears in his eyes as well. "You will call me so again, amad, but you have to promise me… Promise me you will not leave the King." His voice is stern, and you nod.

"I will never leave him again."

"No, amad, you do not understand. Do not leave him even for a day, do not leave the mountain. Do not go to Mirkwood, do not allow King Thranduil close." You look at him in confusion. "You have to stay close, you have to be close to the King..."

The dream is fading, and you are gasping for the hand of your son. "Dain..." The name suddenly clear in your mind, you stretch your arm, but nothing but air is between your fingers.

"Remember your promise, amad, always stay close… Whatever happens, however hard it is, however cruel he seems… And go to him, every time you have a chance, go to him… Stay with him..."

You sit up in your bed, your heart beating painfully. Your face is burning and wet with tears, and you jump out of the bed. You throw a robe over your nightdress and rush out of your chambers. Your pulse painfully thrashing in your throat, you almost run through the passages. The light is on in the King's study, and you freeze in front of the door. And then you think of the auburn haired man in your dreams, his hair of the colour of stag's fur, and you knock. No answer comes, and you push the door.

The King is sitting on the floor, his back leaning on the wall, a toppled goblet on the floor by his feet. You see an open sachet near the empty cup, your own handwriting on it. _"Hemicrania, 3 times per day." _His eyes are closed, face pallid, dark shadows lying under the sunken eyes.

"Thorin?.." He opens the eyes, his lids obviously heavy, and he squints, even the dim light of one lamp probably hurting his eyes. And then his face contorts in pain and rage.

"Go away… Enough with it already..."

"Thorin, I am concerned for you..." He suddenly grabs the goblet and hurls it in your direction. His aim is off, and the cup hits the wall a foot away from your head. You jerk, but you remember your promise. "Thorin..."

"Get out!" He shouts and then presses the palms to his temples. "Do you need to torture me more?.. Is there not enough pain?..."

Your determination wavers. Guilt and shame flood you, and you take short spasmodic breaths in. He is shaken, broken, you are at fault, only you. You make a step back, when you hear his voice again. It is hollow and bleak.

"She is not here… You are not her… I would agree even on a shadow..." He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Cursed pain… Cursed herbs… She always said they would not work, I should have believed her…" He suddenly lifts his eyes at you. "Is this the punishment for not caring for her then? I know, I did not do well… I did neglect her when she was in pain..." A strange pained smirk twists his lips. "It is just a headache, I would say, it cannot be that bad, I would say…" He starts keeling on one side and supports himself on a straight arm, his head dropped heavily.

"How many of the sachets have you taken, Thorin?" He jolts and looks at you again. He seems to have forgotten you were in the room.

"You are here again… Have I not told you to leave? You always left before… You tortured me, but then you would always leave… Once the herbs started working, you would leave..." He snarls, "Why are you still here? Get out..."

You realize he is not lucid enough to understand you are standing in front of him. He thinks you are a delusion. And acute pain feels as a punch into your chest. He thinks you are a delusion, and it is not the first time he is seeing you. How many times has such deception of his feverish mind happened before?

You step closer and kneel in front of him. "Thorin, it is I… I am here..." He violently shakes his head. "I am, I am here, I came from my chambers..." Suddenly his eyes focus on you and he gives you a look over. He places a heavy hand on your shoulder, and you try to smile. Your lips are trembling. "Can you not feel me? I am here..."

He pushes you away, and you fall on your backside. "You will not deceive me, witch… You have lied to me thusly before… In the reach of a hand, so warm, so alive… "

"Thorin..."

"Get out!" He lifts his hand, and you understand that he will hit you across your face in a second. You brace yourself and squeeze your eyes. The blow does not come. "Child… You are with child..." Your eyes fly open. "You are never with child when you come..."

You crawl to him again and grab his hand. He tries to take it away, but you make him press his palm to your stomach. "Thorin, it is your son, and it is I. It is real, it is. Thorin..."

He blinks, and suddenly his eyes are clear and sane. "Kurdu?" The old denomination makes you cry harder. You were not aware of the tears, and now you understand they are running down your face, burning your cheeks. "Zundush..." You throw yourself at him, your arms around his neck, and he presses you into him, shudders running through him. "There is so much pain..." You stroke his head.

"I know, I know… How many of the sachets have you taken?"

"Three, as you have always prescribed." So he is not drugged as you assumed earlier. The madness resides in him. You will worry about it later.

"Thorin, you need to get up. I will not be able to help you rise, you are too heavy for me..." He nods and attempts to get up. His back pressed to the wall, he is taking deep breaths, his eyes closed. "Alright, let me help you get to your bed. You need to lie down, you need peace and quiet..."

"I hate the bed..." His words are slurred, his consciousness is slipping again.

"Thorin, you have to help me. I need you to help me..." He shakes his head and makes a few steps. It takes a frighteningly long time for the two of you to finally reach his bed.

You push him on it and kneel in front of him. You pull of his boots and reach for the clasp on his trousers. He suddenly jerks away from you. "Not again..." It has happened before. You painfully bite into your lip, you will agonise over what his delusions involved later. You pull out the belt. You order him to lift his arms and pull off his tunic.

"Breeches, Thorin, you need to take them off yourself." He complies, and you cowardly look at the canopy until you hear the rustling of him sliding under the covers.

His head on the pillow, hair splayed on the white of the bedding, he is taking slow measured breaths, no doubt trying to reign the searing pain under his eyelids. You sit near him on the bed and start running your fingers through his hair. You remember what helped you, how his fingers moved on your temples, pressing in circular decisive movements, easing the pain, and you massage the hollows on the sides of his head. He raspily moans, and one of his hands lies on your thigh. There is nothing sensual in this gesture, he is just making sure you are physically present. You keep on stroking his head until his breathing evens out and you think he is asleep. You carefully remove your hand from his hair and start getting up slowly.

His hand flies up, and he painfully grabs your fingers. His eyes open and the blue irises are burning, feverish stare focused on you. "Thorin?" You are suddenly scared and try to pull your hand out of his grasp. But he is too strong. You starts shaking, and then he pulls you towards him.


End file.
